"Not at Home"
I had a long, dreary drive after leaving the train, though in other
circumstances I might have been charmed with the loveliness of one of
England's fairest counties. As it was I merely chafed at the endless
hill, up which the horse slowly plodded, half inclined to think that
after all I should have done better to trust to my own feet or come on a
bicycle from town.
The curtain of twilight was falling by the time my fly entered the long
avenue that led to the house. Here and there lights shone out from the
windows, and as the vehicle drew up before the door I caught a glimpse
of something which set my heart throbbing.
It was only a ruddy gleam of firelight on a golden head, which shone for
an instant in the warm light like burnished copper; only a rosy glow on
a girl's white dress, a shimmer seen between the parted folds of dark,
rich window drapings.
For a second, no more, the vision was granted me. A tall, slender form
rose from its kneeling position before the fire, and in so moving passed
beyond my line of sight. But my pulses leaped, and I rejoiced in the
good fortune which had brought me at an hour when Karine was not absent.
I stepped quickly from the cab and would have given much for the right
of a greater intimacy--a right to go to the window and knock, begging
the girl I loved to let me in, to grant me the heaven of ten minutes
alone with her, before the necessities of convention called upon me to
ask for Lady Tressidy.
I imagined what it would be to have this right; I pictured myself
tapping at the panes of the long French window, I saw the dainty girlish
form coming toward me, the start of surprise, the flush which I might
read as I would, the raising of the latch, and the two warm little hands
held out to me in welcome.
But it was all a dream, vanishing as quickly as the rainbow colours in a
bubble, and leaving only the darkness of the dull winter twilight
behind. Such privileges were for a happier man than I: I was at best
only her "friend." Never could I hope, whether success or failure
crowned the effort I was impatient to begin--for more than that.
Instead I walked soberly up to the door and knocked, telling the cabman
that he might wait--and wishing that he might have to wait for long.
Presently in answer to my summons a footman appeared (a fellow I
remembered to have seen at the town house when I had called), and it
struck me that, as I enquired if Lady Tressidy was at home, he eyed me
more piercingly than a well-trained servant usually eyes a guest.
"I am sorry, sir," he answered with a slight hesitation, "that her
ladyship is out at present. What name shall I say when she returns?"
"Mr. Stanton," I unsuspectingly replied, though it did dimly occur to me
that the man might have left me to give him my card. It seemed almost
too good to be true that Lady Tressidy should be away from home, for now
I felt practically certain that I should have the unexpected joy of
seeing Karine alone, speaking to her far more unrestrainedly than I
could do in the presence of her hostess, and explaining in a way
satisfactory to us both, my intended absence.
"I am sorry," I hypocritically remarked, "not to see Lady Tressidy; but
I have come some distance, and perhaps Miss Cunningham would spare me a
few minutes."
"I--I am afraid, sir"--still stammering uncomfortably--"that Miss
Cunningham is away with her ladyship."
I was astonished at this piece of information, for I was absolutely sure
that it was Karine whose shining halo of hair and white gown I had seen
in that rosy space between the window curtains. Of course the footman
might honestly believe that she was not at home; but I did not mean
lightly to abandon the chance of a few words with her.
"I think you are mistaken about that," I boldly said. "Please be good
enough at any rate to enquire."
The fellow's face reddened, contrasting unpleasantly with his powder,
but he persisted in his story.
"I am quite sure I am right, sir," he went on more firmly. "Miss
Cunningham is with my lady."
My impulse was to slip a couple of sovereigns into his palm, and insist
that he should ascertain if Miss Cunningham were not after all at home,
for I was beginning to be suspicious of a plot to thwart me. If such an
one existed I could not think that Karine had been a party to it, for
though of course she could not care to see me, in at all the same way in
which I yearned for a sight of her sweet face, I believed that she would
not wish me to be sent away from the house humiliated. My hand was
moving toward my pocket, when suddenly I reconsidered. If I took such
strong measures to secure a _tete-a-tete_ with Karine, it might
appear that we were in collusion, and trouble thus be made for her with
Lady Tressidy and Sir Walter. I could not risk causing her uneasiness,
especially as I was going far away; and with a pang I saw that I was in
a trap.
There might be one way out, however, and I took it.
"I will wait," I announced, "until the ladies return. Or possibly Sir
Walter----"
"Sir Walter won't be here for a day or two," promptly responded the man.
So thoroughly miserable did he look, though his manner gained
confidence, that I thought he must still be new to a service which must
foster a certain amount of conventional deceit.
"As for the ladies, sir, unfortunately they are not expected back this
evening until--until the last train--too late, as you can understand,
sir, to receive any visitors, as at all events they can't reach the
house until after eleven."
I bit my lip with futile indignation against Lady Tressidy, and against
Fate--never against Karine. It was evident that the footman had received
the most stringent orders as to what he must do in case of so
undesirable an emergency as a visit from Mr. Noel Stanton. He had
probably been asked if he was certain of being able to recognise me
again, had answered that he believed he would be so, but on suddenly
being called upon to face the responsibility, had made his little bid
for ascertaining my name as early as possible in the game, by way of
rendering assurance doubly sure.
Of course the dutiful servant was not really to blame for following out
his instructions to the letter, yet I felt that I hated his smug face
and plastered head, and would have liked to frighten him with menaces
and strange foreign oaths.
I dared not give him the note which I had written, meaning if necessary
to slip it into Karine's own hand unseen, for it might easily be that,
despite any bribe I offered, it would never reach the dear eyes for
which it was intended.
"I will write a line on my card, then, to be handed to the ladies, whom
I regret not having seen," I said with what dignity I had at my command.
And stepping past him into the hall, despite a visible gleam of
consternation in his eye, I deliberately took out a pencil and
card-case, slowly scribbling a few words.
My hope was that if Karine was really in the drawing-room she would come
forth, and the Gordian knot of the dilemma would be cut.
But having mentioned my imminent departure from England on private and
urgent business, and added that, though I had been anxious to see Lady
Tressidy and Miss Cunningham for the sake of bidding good-bye, it would
be, more strictly speaking, only _au revoir_, as I intended
returning within the next four weeks, I could think of nothing more to
say. And still the drawing-room door, near which I was standing, was not
opened.
I should have been glad to underscore the last six words, but did not
venture to do so for obvious reasons, and could only hope that Karine
might see them or hear them read, and partly understand.
I conspicuously placed a sovereign on the card as I gave it to the
footman, remarking quietly that I would wish the latter to be delivered
in the presence of both ladies if possible. Then I seemed to have come
to the end of my resources, until a desperate idea seized me.
Had I not been virtually certain that Karine was to be kept from seeing
me, without her own consent to such an arrangement, naturally I would
have accepted my _conge_ with a good grace, and gone away, a wiser
as well as a sadder man; but as it was, and considering the importance
for her future as well as my own, of a hasty explanation between us, I
was ready to snatch at almost any expedient, not prejudicial to her, of
obtaining a word with Karine Cunningham.
I turned from the door and got into the cab, which the footman politely
opened for me as if only too glad to speed the parting guest. The
direction, "to the station," was given, the gravel crunched under the
wheels and horse's hoofs, the door at which I had been received so
inhospitably shut me out of paradise, and no doubt the servant
triumphantly watched me drive off. Half-way down the avenue, however, I
thrust my stick from the window of the rattle-trap vehicle and stopped
the coachman.
"I have forgotten something," I curtly said. "You needn't go back; wait
here, and I'll return again in a few moments."
The fly was standing just out of sight from the house, and rapidly
leaving it behind me I strode over the frozen grass of the lawn, taking
a shorter cut than the avenue would have been.
In considerably less than five minutes I had once more arrived in front
of the window through which I was as positive as ever I had seen Karine.
Only a short time ago I had dreamed of doing such a thing as this as a
delicious impossibility, only belonging to a world of romance which I
could never enter. But here I was actually bent on the accomplishment of
the deed.
The falling darkness had protected me, I felt confident, from being seen
by anybody in the house as I crossed the lawn, and I approached with
boldness, which only left me as I reached the window.
The curtain hung apart as before, and I could see the fireplace with the
lights and shadows travelling fantastically along the polished floor and
wall. The white irradiated figure was no longer visible, but
undiscouraged by this fact I gently tapped, trusting that Karine might
be in another part of the room to which my eyes could not reach.
If she were there my knock would startle her perhaps, and she would draw
near in curiosity to see what had made the slight suspicious noise; then
I could make my presence known, leaving apologies till later, and
afterward--well, afterward the rest must depend upon her.
But I knocked once, twice, thrice, each time a little louder, a little
more insistently than before, and there was no response, no sound, no
movement. After all I was thwarted, and had but one comfort in the midst
of gloom--I had not been easily repulsed, I had done what I could, and
need not feel, when I was far away, that I had let myself be outwitted,
outgeneralled, without an effort to resist.
Fate had decided that I must go to America without a word, without a
look into Karine Cunningham's eyes; and drearily returning to my waiting
cab I commenced once more the tedious drive to the station.
Never had I felt more utterly disheartened; for, after all, I could not
be _quite_ sure that Karine had not acquiesced in the order to
exclude me from the house. It seemed that she must have heard my voice
in the hall, that if she had chosen she might easily have contrived some
means of seeing me while I was briskly taxing my ingenuity to reach her.
I guessed at Wildred's powerful influence in the affair, and was ready
to fancy others; but, as I was to learn long afterward, I brought
forward every reason for Karine's mysterious inertness save the right
one.