MIRALDA
Although it was easy to read the look of recognition in Miralda’s
eyes, it was the reverse of easy to gather the thoughts which that
recognition prompted. After the first momentary widening of the lids,
the start of surprise, and the involuntary tightening of the fingers on
her fan, she was quick to force a smile, as she bowed to me, and the
smile served as an impenetrable mask to her real feelings.
The viscontesse gave me a very different welcome. She was pleased to
see me again and frankly expressed her pleasure. I had done my best to
ingratiate myself in her favour during those three weeks in Paris, and
had evidently been successful. She was a kind-hearted garrulous soul,
and before I could get a word in about the dances, she plunged into a
hundred and one questions about Paris and England and the beauties of
Lisbon, and why I had not let them know of my coming and so on, and
without giving me time to reply she turned to Miralda.
“You surely remember Mr. Donnington, child? We met him in Paris, last
spring.”
“Oh yes, mother. His sister is M. Madrillo’s wife,” said Miralda
indifferently.
This was not exactly how I wished to be remembered. “I am glad you
have not forgotten my sister, at any rate, mademoiselle,” I replied,
intending this to be very pointed.
“M. Madrillo showed us many kindnesses, monsieur, and did much to
make our stay in Paris pleasant; and it is not a Portuguese failing to
forget.”
This was better, for there was a distinct note of resentment in her
voice instead of mere indifference. But before I could reply, the
viscontesse interposed a very natural but extremely inconvenient
question. “And what brings you here, Mr. Donnington?”
The visconte answered this, making matters worse than ever; and there
followed a little by-play of cross purposes.
“Mr. Donnaheen is here on some very important business, my dear--very
important business indeed.”
“If I remember, Donnington is the proper pronunciation, father,”
interposed Miralda, very quietly, as if courtesy required the
correction--the courtesy that was due to a stranger, however.
“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, Miralda,” he replied testily. “This
gentleman will understand how difficult some English names are to
pronounce and will excuse my slip, I am sure.”
“Certainly, visconte.”
“I am only sorry I do not speak English.”
“Donnington is quite easy to pronounce, Affonso,” his wife broke in.
He gave a sigh of impatience. “Of course it is, I know that well
enough.”
“You were speaking of the reason for Mr. Donnington’s visit,” Miralda
reminded him demurely; and as she turned to him her eyes swept
impassively across my face. As if a stranger’s presence in Lisbon were
a legitimate reason for the polite assumption of curiosity.
“It is in a way Government business; Mr. Donnington”--he got the name
right this time and smiled--“is seeking some concessions in our East
African colony and he needs my influence.”
“Oh, business in East Africa?” she repeated, with a lift of the
eyebrows. “How very interesting;” and with that she turned away and
handed her programme to one of the men pestering her for a dance.
No words she could have spoken and nothing she could have done would
have been so eloquent of her appreciation of my conduct in absenting
myself for four months and then coming to Lisbon on business. Once more
I wished those infernal concessions at the bottom of the Tagus.
“I hope to be of considerable use and you may depend upon my doing my
utmost,” said the visconte, self-complacently.
“I cannot say how highly I shall value your influence, sir, not only
in that but in everything,” I replied, putting an emphasis on the
“everything” in the hope that Miralda would understand.
But she paid no heed and went on chatting with the man next her.
“And how long are you staying, Mr. Donnington?” asked her mother.
“Rather a superfluous question that, Maria,” said her husband. “Of
course it will depend upon how your business goes, eh, Mr. Donnington?”
I saw a chance there and took it. “I am afraid my object will take
longer to accomplish than I hoped,” I replied; for Miralda’s benefit
again of course.
“At any rate you will have time for some pleasure-making, I trust,”
said the viscontesse.
“Englishmen don’t let pleasure interfere with business, my dear, they
are far too strenuous,” replied her husband, who appeared to think he
was flattering me and doing me a service by insisting that I could have
no possible object beyond business. “I presume that you are only here
to-night for the one purpose. The Marquis de Pinsara told me as much.”
At that moment a partner came up to claim Miralda for a dance, and as
she rose she said: “Mr. Donnington is fortunate in finding so many to
help him in his business.”
“Wait a moment, Miralda,” exclaimed her father as she was turning away.
“Have you kept the dances for Mr. Donnington?”
Again her eyes flashed across mine with the same half-disdainful smile
of indifference. “Mr. Donnington has been so occupied discussing the
serious purpose of his visit that he has had no time to think of such
frivolity and ask for them;” and with that parting shot she went off to
the ball-room without waiting to hear my protest.
The visconte smiled and gestured. “I suppose you don’t dance, Mr.
Donnington,” he said, “I have heard that many Englishmen do not.”
“Indeed he does, Affonso,” declared his wife quickly. “I remember that
well in Paris. He and Miralda often danced together. And now, sit down
here in Miralda’s place till she comes back and let us have a chat
about Paris,” she added to me.
But the old visconte had not quite done with me. Drawing me aside--“I
want you to feel that I shall do all in my power, Mr. Donnington,” he
began.
I knew what was coming so I anticipated him. “I am sure of that, and I
have been given to understand that you can do more for me than any one
else in Portugal. And of course you’ll understand that those who assist
me in the early stages will naturally share in the after advantages and
gains. I make a strong point of that.”
“Of course that was not in my mind at all,” he protested.
“Naturally. But I should insist upon it,” I said gravely.
“I suppose it will be a very big thing?”
“Millions in it, visconte. Millions;” and I threw out my hands as if
half the riches of the earth would soon be in their grasp. “And of
course I know that without you I should be powerless.”
He appreciated this thoroughly and went off on excellent terms with
himself and with a high opinion of me as a potential source of wealth,
while I sat down by the viscontesse to explain why four months had
passed since we met.
But these miserable concessions gave me no peace. I was only beginning
my explanation when up came the marquis and dragged me off for the
first of another batch of introductions, followed by a long conference
in another room with him and Volheno who had meanwhile arrived. And
just as the marquis took my arm to lead me away, and thus prevented my
escape, Miralda returned from the dance.
A single glance showed her that I was fully occupied in the business
which I had been forced to admit in her presence was the object of my
visit to Lisbon, and the expression of her eyes and the shrug of her
shoulders were a sufficient indication of her feeling.
I was properly punished for the silly lie which I had merely intended
to conceal my real purpose, and when I saw Miralda welcome a fresh
partner with a smile which I would have given the whole of Portuguese
Africa to have won from her, I could scarcely keep my temper.
I was kept at this fool talk for an hour or more when I ought to have
been making my peace with her, and I resolved on the spot to invent a
telegram from London the next day reporting a hitch in the negotiations.
When at length I got free, Miralda was not anywhere to be seen; and I
wandered about the rooms and in and out of the conservatories looking
for her, putting up no end of couples in odd corners and getting
deservedly scowled at for my pains.
I saw her at last among the dancers; and I stood and watched her,
gritting my teeth in the resolve that no titled old bores nor even wild
horses should prevent my speaking to her as soon as the waltz was over.
I stalked her into a palm house which I had missed in my former search
and, giving her and her partner just enough time to find seats, I
followed and walked straight up to them.
She knew I was coming. I could tell that by the way she squared
her shoulders and affected the deepest interest in her partner’s
conventional nothings.
“I think the next is our dance, mademoiselle,” I said unblushingly,
as I affected to consult my card. She gave a start as if entirely
surprised by and rather indignant at the interruption; while her
partner had the decency to rise. But she glanced at her card and then
looked up with a bland smile and shook her head. “I am afraid you are
mistaken, monsieur.”
The man was going to resume his place by her side, but I stopped
that. “I have the honour of your initials here, and if to my intense
misfortune you have given the dance to two of us, perhaps this
gentleman will allow me, as an old acquaintance of yours, to enjoy the
few minutes of interval to deliver an important message entrusted to
me.”
I was under the fire of her eyes all the time I was delivering this
flowery and untruthful rigmarole; but I was as voluble and as grave as
a judge. I took the man in all right. I made him feel that under the
circumstances he was in the way and with a courteous bow to us both, he
excused himself.
Miralda was going to request him to remain, I think, so I took
possession of the vacant chair; and then of course she could not bring
him back without making too much of the incident and possibly causing a
little scene.
That I had offended her I could not fail to see; her hostility
and resentment were obvious, but whether the cause was my present
effrontery or my long neglect of her, I had yet to find out.
She did not quite know what to do. After sitting a few moments in
rather frowning indecision, she half rose as if she were going to leave
me, but with a little toss of the head she decided against that and
turned to me.
“You have a message for me, monsieur?” Her tone was one of studied
indifference and her look distinctly chilling.
“For one thing, my sister desired to be most kindly remembered to you.”
Up went the deep fringed lids and the dark eyebrows, as a comment upon
the message which I had described as important. “Please to tell Madame
Madrillo that I am obliged by her good wishes and reciprocate them.”
This ridiculously stilted phrase made it difficult for me to resist a
smile. But I played up to it.
“I feel myself deeply honoured, mademoiselle, by being made the bearer
of any communication from you. I will employ my most earnest efforts to
convey to my sister your wishes and the auspicious circumstances under
which they are so graciously expressed.”
She had to turn away before I finished, but she would not smile. There
was, however, less real chill and more effort at formality when she
replied--
“As you have delivered your message, monsieur----” she finished with a
wave of the hands, as if dismissing me.
But I was not going of course, and then I made a very gratifying little
discovery. Her dance card was turned over by her gesture and I saw that
for the next dance she had no partner.
“That is only one of the messages, mademoiselle,” I replied after a
pause in the same stilted tone. “Have I your permission to report the
second?”
I guessed she was beginning to see the absurdity of it, for she turned
slightly away from me and bowed, not trusting herself to speak.
“My brother-in-law, M. Stefan Madrillo, desired me to bring you an
assurance of his best wishes.”
“Have you any messages from the children also, monsieur?” she asked
quickly, with a swift flash of her glorious eyes.
I kept it up for another round. “I am honoured by being able to assure
you that their boy appreciated to the full the bon-bons which were the
outcome of your distinguished generosity when in Paris, and retains his
appetite for delicacies; but the little girl, not yet being able to
speak, has entrusted me with no more than some gurgles and coos. To my
profound regret I cannot reproduce them verbatim. May I have the honour
of conveying your reply?”
She kept her face turned right away from me and did not answer.
“I have yet another message, mademoiselle, if your patience is not
exhausted,” I said after a pause.
“Still another, monsieur?”
“Still another, mademoiselle.”
“From whom, monsieur?”
“From a man you knew in Paris, mademoiselle, Mr. Ralph Donnington. He
has charged me to explain----”
“I don’t wish to hear that one, thank you,” she broke in.
“But he is absolutely determined that you shall hear it.”
“Shall?” she cried warmly, throwing back her head with a lovely poise
of indignation and looking straight into my eyes.
“Yes, shall,” I replied firmly. “I have travelled over a thousand miles
to deliver it.”
“I am not interested in mining concessions, Mr. Donnington,” she cried
scornfully, thinking to wither me.
“Nor am I.”
Her intense surprise at this put all her indignation to flight, and
left nothing in her eyes but bewildered curiosity.
“Nor am I,” I repeated with a smile.
“But----”
“I know,” I said when she paused. “I had to have a pretext.”
She knew what I meant then and lowered her eyes.
“I still do not wish to hear Mr. Donnington’s message,” she said after
a pause and in a very different tone.
“I do not wish to force it upon you now, and certainly not against your
wish. I may be some months in Lisbon, and----”
“There is the band for the next dance, I must go,” she interposed.
“I have seen by your card that you have no partner; but if you wish me
to leave you I will do so, or take you back to the viscontesse--unless
you will give it to me.”
She leant back in her chair, her head bent, her brows gathered in a
frown of perplexity and her fingers playing nervously with her fan.
“I do not wish to dance, Mr. Donnington, thank you,” she murmured.
“Just as you will.”
A long silence followed. She was agitated and I perplexed.
After perhaps a minute of this silence, I rose.
“You wish to be alone, mademoiselle?”
She did not reply and I was turning to leave when she looked up
quickly. “I do not wish you to go, Mr. Donnington.” Then putting
aside the thoughts, whatever they were, which had been troubling her,
she laughed and added: “Why should I? It is pleasant to meet an old
acquaintance. You have come through Paris on your way here, of course.
Were you there long?”
I was more perplexed by the change of tone and manner than by her
former silent preoccupation.
“I did not come through Paris,” I replied, as I resumed my seat. “I
came from England in the _Stella_--my yacht.”
“You have had delightful weather for your cruise.”
“I was not cruising in that sense. The _Stella_ is a very fast boat and
I came in her because I could get here more quickly.”
“Our Portuguese railways are very slow, of course, and the Spanish
trains no better. It is a very tedious journey from Paris.”
“Very,” I agreed. Whether she wished to make small talk in order to
avoid my explanation, I did not know; but I fell in with her wish and
then tried to lead round to the old time in Paris.
She turned my references to it very skilfully however, and after my
third unsuccessful attempt, she herself referred to it in a way that
forced me to regard it as a sealed page.
“It has been very pleasant to meet you again, Mr. Donnington, and have
such a delightful chat, and I am so much obliged to you for not having
pressed me to dance. I hope we shall see a good deal of you while you
are here. You quite captured my dear mother during that time in Paris.
Of course you’ll call.”
“I ventured to leave cards immediately on my arrival.”
Then she rose. “I must really go now. Major Sampayo will be looking for
me for the next dance. Have you met the major yet?”
“I don’t think so; but I have had so many introductions this evening
that I don’t remember all the names.”
“Ah, the result of your supposed purpose in Lisbon, probably. Of course
I shall keep your secret,” she replied with a smile. Then a sudden
change came over her. She paused, the hand which held her fan trembled,
the effort to maintain the light indifference of voice and manner
became apparent, and her voice was a trifle unsteady as she added: “You
will meet Major Sampayo at our house. Ah, here he comes with my friend
the Contesse Inglesia. I suppose my mother has told you I am betrothed
to him.”
The news gripped me like a cramp in the heart, and I caught my breath
and gritted my teeth as I stared at her.
But the next instant I rallied. The pain and concern in her eyes seemed
to explain what had so perplexed me in her manner. Her agitation when
I told her the real purpose of my presence; her quick assumption of
indifference, of mere acquaintanceship, her studious evasion of my
references to our time in Paris, and her light surface talk on things
of no concern to either of us. If my new wild hope was right, all this
had been merely intended to school herself to refer lightly to the
matter of her betrothal.
I forced a smile. “Permit me to congratulate----” I began; but the
words died on my lips as I turned and saw the two people whom she had
mentioned.
The man, Major Sampayo, I knew to be one of the vilest scoundrels who
ever escaped the gallows.
And his companion was the woman whose life I had saved from her
revolutionary associates on the previous night.