A WOMAN SCORNED.
When Count Vladimir Mellikoff drew back the portières that shrouded the doors of the large drawing-room at the Folly, he came face to face with Miss Rosalie James, and for a full moment these two gazed at each other in a silence that might have been born either of unexpectedness, or preconcerted arrangement.
Count Mellikoff never allowed ordinary emotions to be visible in his face; he had that absolute control of feature and muscle which only long training and an inflexible will can effect. It is seldom one comes across such a countenance, over which no appreciable change ever passes, and upon which the passions leave no reflex, not even the slightest shadow, such as troubles a pool when a cloud passes overhead, that is gone even as one watches its approach. Such a countenance betokens one of two temperaments: a nature too weak and vacuous to feel or comprehend any master passion, and which from very inanition becomes irresponsive, or one so strong and so intense as to fear its own capabilities, and therefore strives to conceal all outward expression, lest its lightest emotion might exhibit something more than the usual conventionalities.
Of the latter type was Vladimir Mellikoff. From his boyhood he had taught himself the value of repression, and in it had found his greatest power. He had learned to so utterly subdue all outward expression of the passion that at the moment might be consuming him, as to remain absolutely passive under the most trying circumstances, and so to control his every feature, that not one muscle, not so much as the trembling of his lips or the lifting of his eyebrows, ever betrayed him, when it was his will that they should not.
And yet, perhaps, the greatest charm that he possessed was the sudden and unexpected brilliancy or softness which he at times allowed his countenance to assume; then all the harsh, decisive lines faded from about his mouth and eyes, the stern rigidity of chin and brow relaxed, the gravity of the dark eyes, in their deep settings, grew tender, and the expression of melancholy harshness melted beneath the sweetness of his smile.
Olga Naundorff, who knew him so well, had seen this change in him more often than any one, yet even to her it was always new and startling, and filled her with a certain feeling of amazement, not unmixed with pity. For to Olga, the beautiful, as to her Imperial ancestress, men and men's passions were but playthings of the hour, and should, like all mechanical toys, be perfectly regulated by ingenious clockwork, warranted never to get out of order, and never to carry their cleverness beyond certain boundaries. If any one of her puppets over-stepped these, and showed signs of unconventional or barbaric passion, she lifted her dark brows in astonishment, raised her proud head a trifle more haughtily, and with superb disdain reduced the poor bungler to his proper state of imbecility, and then passed him by ever after with an intensity of quiet scorn, that killed by slow but sure degrees.
To her mind all passion was vulgar, and to be vulgar was to write one's self down a fool; fools had no place in her world. They might be of use in some other part of the globe, that was not her affair; to her they were bores, and bores, as we all know, are obnoxious pests; away with them, let them be anathema. Life is too short to expend any portion of it on emotions that ruin the digestion and spoil the most perfect complexion.
For one entire moment Miss James and Count Vladimir looked full in one another's faces, and in that moment each pair of dark eyes read something in the other that caused them both to sink simultaneously, while over the girl's cheeks a faint dull red rose and faded.
The half smile, mocking yet satisfied, that had come to Count Mellikoff's lips as he picked up the bit of lace and muslin from beside Patricia's chair, still lingered, and now it deepened somewhat, as with a bow he stepped back, holding aside the heavy draperies, and by an almost imperceptible gesture commanded Miss James to enter. She obeyed him, and as the thick plush curtains fell behind her with a dull rustle, they seemed to her excited fancy to shut her out for ever from the gaiety and freedom of the life she had quitted only a moment ago, even as they shut her within the deserted drawing-room, with Vladimir Mellikoff as her only companion.
She laughed nervously and put her hand up to her throat as she did so, trying in vain to shake off the absurd superstitious feeling that was creeping over her, and that seemed to enfold all her senses and render her acquiescent and obedient to the will of this tall dark man, who stood before her, and whose distinguished face, with its burning eyes and compressed lips, fascinated her, as the serpent fascinates the dove. She could even think of this simile, and in her heart laugh at it, but she could not shake off, or overcome the fact of his mesmeric influence upon her.
Count Mellikoff drew a low causeuse towards her, and with grave politeness begged her to be seated. She sank down upon it with passive obedience, and folding her hands on her knees looked up at him; she held a marquise fan of ostrich plumes, these trembled somewhat; it was the only sign of emotion that escaped her.
Vladimir turned from her and walked the length of the drawing-room, standing for a moment at the entrance to the conservatory, where lived the golden-hued Maréchal Niel roses; their pungent yet faint perfume permeating the atmosphere, while their heavy heads drooped with the burden of their own loveliness, half hidden in the tender green of their leaves.
As he walked away from her, Rosalie roused herself from the strange lethargy that had subdued her; she threw back her head, her breath came quickly, a flush crept up and stained the olive pallor of her cheeks; she opened her hands, throwing them out with an impatient gesture, and the marquise fan fell noiselessly at her feet, the waving feathers making a light breeze as they fluttered down that touched her face and lifted the laces of her low corsage.
The over-strained tension of her nerves gave way; she could have cried for very relief and joy as she felt the spell of his presence failing at the return of her powerful will. She watched him eagerly and saw him enter the rose house; as his dark figure vanished in the interior gloom she jumped up quickly, threw up her arms, and drew a long deep breath; took a step or two forward, and noticing the fallen fan stooped to pick it up, then turned to leave the room by a side entrance. As she did so Vladimir Mellikoff stood before her, holding a golden-hued rose between his fingers.
She started back, she was almost terrified by his sudden reappearance; she had not heard his approach, his footsteps were noiseless on the heavy carpet; she imagined him safe in the alleys of the conservatory, and her escape from him but the effort of a moment. She had but stooped to recover her fan, and lo, there he stood, tall and commanding and smiling, before her. She gazed at him questioningly, and again, as her glance met his inscrutable dark eyes, she recalled the old fable of the serpent and the dove. She sank down upon the causeuse trembling.
"Mademoiselle," Count Vladimir's courteous, cool tones were saying, "will you honour me by the acceptance of this rose? The royal flower, par excellence, over all other flowers, as one of your own English writers, John Ruskin, says. If I may be permitted to suggest so bold an idea, it will enhance, and be enhanced, by a place in your corsage."
He held out the flower, smiling as he did so, and she took it mechanically, and fastened it amidst the black laces that draped her shoulders and bosom; it dropped its golden head lovingly upon them, while its perfume rose and fell with the pulsations of her heart.
Vladimir drew a chair opposite to her and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and his keen eyes noting each fluctuating expression of her face, each flutter of the laces above her unquiet breast, each nervous movement of her hands in their long, loose Suède coverings. He had a dangerous game to play, and upon his success or defeat depended his winning or losing Olga. As her name crossed his mind, though not spoken by his lips, he was shaken by a sudden passion of love and desire; he recalled her proud, pale beauty, the blue of her eyes, "blue as the violets of his own Novgorod," the golden sheen of her hair, her lissom figure, and her cold haughty smile.
He would win her, or he would die; and what mattered any other woman's life if he could but appear worthy in her eyes? What had the chief said? "You must use a woman's weapons—finesse, deceit, distrust—when you make war upon a woman." Well, and so he would; it should go hard with him if he could not fit himself out in a woman's armour, and not reveal where the breast-plate failed to meet, or the helmet bound his forehead too tightly. One must put up with such little inconveniences when one adapts oneself to the warfare of the weaker sex.
"Above all, distrust the women of the great world, they are our cleverest enemies;" that had been another of Patouchki's axioms; and he did distrust this pale, dark-eyed, slight American girl with every fibre of his mind, and read her through and through; her shallow cleverness, her dwarfed ambitions, her stunted love, that was not so much love as a mixture of baffled pride and jealousy, and desire of conquest. She could be useful to him; he had decided that within the dinner-hour, when he caught her suspicious glances, cast first at Philip Tremain, as he sat on Mrs. Newbold's left, and then at Miss Hildreth, who, radiant and handsome, was eating olives, and mystifying George Newbold, on whose right hand she was placed. He had read Miss James's secret then and there, and resolved that it should be useful to him, and that she should be the tool in his master-hand wherewith to work.
Rosalie in due course had been presented to him, and she had not failed to notice and feel flattered by his attentions to her. She was smarting under Mr. Tremain's too apparent indifference, and Patricia's too evident power. She longed to strike both the one and the other, to tear off the masks from their serenely smiling faces, and hold them up to the scorn and derision of their world.
"I hate them both," she murmured between her teeth. "I hate him because he loves her still, and I hate her because she is so beautiful and so victorious. I know there is some secret well hidden behind that lovely face, and oh, what would I not give to find it out and reveal it!"
It was at this moment that George Newbold's lazy voice interrupted her thoughts, and looking up she saw him leaning towards her with the distinguished appearing foreigner beside him. Mr. Newbold mumbled out two names and left them, and Rosalie glancing up again met the Count's steady dark eyes fixed upon her, and knew with sudden certainty that he had read her face only too well; how much more that lay beneath the surface of her outward seeming not even she could tell!
They stood quite silent for several moments, and during that time she felt imperceptibly at first, and then more and more certainly, his influence and power growing upon her; she acknowledged the intensity of his glance without daring to meet it, and could have cried for rage at her own inability to throw off the fascination he exercised over her. When he spoke it was upon a commonplace topic, and she drew a sigh of relief when, after a brief conversation, he bowed and left her, even though conscious of a vague regret that he should go from her.
During the evening she had many times felt his eyes seek her out and rest for a moment on her face, and at each such occurrence the blood had rushed to her cheeks, and she had trembled, though not with cold. He had stood a long time talking with Mr. Tremain, and she had watched them with a half-formed anticipation of some coming and unexpected catastrophe, and then, when she turned and sought to leave the room, she heard a quiet voice say, "Permit me," the door was opened for her, and as she expressed her thanks Count Vladimir bowed, and returned to his place beside Philip. And now they were once more together and alone, and she was again conscious of an ever-increasing apprehension; the prescience of some coming evil in which they were both to bear a part, and yet which she was powerless to avert.
"Mademoiselle," said Count Vladimir, bending a little more forward and looking up at her from under his dark brows, "I am about to do something which under ordinary circumstances and with an ordinary audience would be considered not only indiscreet but unconventional. If I misjudge my opportunity and my audience and offend you by putting you outside the pale of weak worshippers of conventional cult, pray say so at once, and I will humbly beg your pardon and withdraw."
For answer she drew her fingers once or twice across the feathers of her fan, and let her eyes travel slowly up from that pretty toy to his face, taking in as they did so the smallest detail of his appearance, from the thin long-fingered hands, that hung down so quietly between his knees, the dead gold of the one ring he wore with its blazing ruby, to the tiny red rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honour that decorated his correct evening costume. As she raised her eyes still higher they met his, and for an infinitesimal space of time held hers captive; then she dropped them again, and sinking back against the cushions of her chair, raised the feather fan until it rested against her lips. Her voice was quiet when she replied, though a fine ear might have caught a suspicion of fear in it:
"You flatter me, Count Mellikoff; to be considered above one's world in virtue or in vice is always a distinction, if not always an honour. Pray in what indiscretion can I be of help to you?"
"I will tell you frankly, mademoiselle, that I am visiting this country for two purposes and in two characters. It has struck me that as one part of my work is that of reparation, a woman of my own world, of quick perceptions, nice judgment, and unerring instinct might, and could, materially assist me in my self-imposed task. I know the generosity of women, and I know how quick they are to respond to any tale of wrong or outrage; perhaps it is the very conventionalities of their lives which hedge them in, from birth to marriage, that increases their spontaneous desire to see wrongs righted, and the criminal brought to justice. I do not know, that is a question of analysis into which I cannot enter; I may have my theories, but need not bore you with them. The result of the present system is made plain to me by the women of my own country, where no rule or restriction is ever relaxed on any pretence, and where the world and the world's dogmas are worshipped with a blind and absolute faith. And yet, mademoiselle, even there I have known the fairest and highest born women, when occasion required, shake off the chains of custom and stand forth boldly in defence of right and justice."
"That, Count Mellikoff, it seems to me any woman would do, no matter what her nationality, if the object of her enthusiasm was worthy in her eyes. It is not to an American girl that you should plead for liberty of thought and action, since we have grown up upon the very soil that once was baptized in blood, shed by our forefathers to gain this very freedom of opinion."
"It is a grand country," replied Vladimir, slowly, and without banter or sarcasm in his tone, "I admire it already, though as yet but a stranger, and it is for that very reason that I shrink from one part of my task. Mademoiselle, when one has been courteously received, and hospitably entertained, one hesitates to strike a blow at those who have so trusted one. The Arabs read us a lesson in moral ethics, which we children of a latter-day civilisation would do well to follow. He who breaks bread with the child of the desert is ever after protected by him and his tribe. Not so with us, treachery is our watchword, ingratitude our pass key."
He spoke somewhat bitterly, though without changing his position or expression, and Miss James, as she looked searchingly at him, could discover no corresponding reflexion of words in face or eyes.
"Has your experience been of such a character?" she asked, a little abruptly.
"Both my experience and actions will bear me out in my asseverations," he replied; and then in rather a lighter tone he continued: "It is rather the fault of our nineteenth century progress, mademoiselle, that we have neither time nor inclination for the old-fashioned courtesies and amenities of our grandsires' days; we make boast of our honesty and truth, it is true, and we are brutal often in enforcing these virtues; we cry out against and disclaim the gentler methods, and say with satisfied arrogance that fine phrases have no truth, polite aphorisms no depth; well, perhaps we are right, but for my part I prefer a well-turned and politely-worded lie, knowing it to be such, than the brute force of to-day's truthfulness. Honesty and honour have such elastic definitions, it is difficult to know where the one degenerates into mendacity, or the other becomes contention.
"Let us, however, leave useless analysis, mademoiselle, and with your permission, I will become personal. I am selfish in doing so, because I desire to interest you in myself and my work."
He drew back a little as he spoke, and lifted his arms from his knees, bringing his face more on a level with hers. Rosalie watched him with the same indefinable interest and fascination that had first subdued her. She did not speak, but her eyes sought his and rested there, and the heavy golden flower upon her bosom rose and sank hurriedly.
"Have I your permission, mademoiselle?" he asked.
She bowed her head, making an affirmative gesture with her hand; the feather fan lay still upon her lap.
"You have heard," he began, "that I am here in two characters. I come in the ordinary way to visit a great country, for which my own land has always entertained a friendly feeling; I come to inspect her institutions, her educational universities, her great cities, her fine rivers; I come to admire and to learn, and to carry back with me pleasant recollections of a too-hospitable and charming people. That is I, in my proper aspect, without disguise or concealment; but that is not my first object, or my real errand. Mademoiselle, I come to seek, to trace, to find—a woman. One who has flown to your country for protection, to escape the penalty of crime; who is a fugitive from justice, and who thinks, poor fool! thus to avoid the power and the vengeance of Russia. Mademoiselle, it is in this work I ask your assistance."
As he spoke, Miss James had risen to her feet, and now stood before him, her face blanched and haggard, her eyes glowing dark and angry, her breath coming quick and short; her arms hung straight down by her sides, the loose gloves falling about the thin wrists and leaving bare the slender arms; the feather fan lay unheeded at her feet.
"Why do you ask me, Count Mellikoff?" she cried, in a strained, harsh voice, her eyes never leaving his face. "Why do you ask me to help you to track a woman, to hunt a fugitive, a poor, wretched, heart-broken fugitive, no doubt flying for her life from your cruel country and its cruel laws? What do you see in me that makes you think I will lend myself to your mad schemes? What am I that you should so count upon my co-operation?"
She stopped, and Vladimir, who had also risen and stood facing her, cool and unmoved, bent down and, lifting up the marquise fan, handed it to her with a bow before he replied. When he spoke his voice was keen and sharp, his words cutting and cruel.
"What do I see in you, mademoiselle? Nay, let me rather answer your question by a line from an English poet:
'I see—a woman scorned——'
How does the couplet end?"
But Miss James made him no reply, her hands closed vehemently on the fan she held; under their pressure the frail pearl sticks snapped in two and fell apart. She looked at him fixedly; the crimson blood had rushed in a torrent to her face, and the red stain lingered there. Suddenly she faltered, trembled, swayed a little, and sinking down upon the low causeuse, covered her face with her hands and burst into long-drawn sobs and tears.
It was late that night before Miss James sought her own room; as she passed out of the drawing-room Count Vladimir held back the heavy portières with respectful attention, bending his head in salutation as she went by him.
Behind her, on the velvet carpet, lay the strewn petals of a golden-hued rose, about whose torn beauty a subtle fragrance still lingered, and the broken pearl sticks of a marquise feather fan.