AN ARRIVAL AND A MEETING.
When Mr. Tremain entered the drawing-room later in the evening, he was at once conscious of Patricia's presence. It did not require the practical use of his eyes to assure himself of the fact, for to him the room and the company were permeated with her personality.
It had always been so with Patricia. When she entered an assembly she drew to herself all the light and vivacity and beauty of the scene; and the homage which was always immediately accorded her, seemed but a fitting tribute to her fascinations.
Other women, by far more beautiful, paled before the witchery of her face; other wits, whose slightest expression was a bon-mot, faded into insignificance when she entered the lists.
And yet she was neither very beautiful, nor very spirituelle; but she possessed in a rare degree that nameless something, that charm of presence, of voice, of manner, which is unconquerable because intangible, and against which it is worse than useless to resist. It is a dangerous attribute, and heavy is the responsibility of those who possess it; it may lead them and others to the highest feats of heroic sacrifice, and it may doom them to the lowest depths of the woe that is eternal.
Philip, as he crossed the room, looked not so much for Patricia herself, but rather to where the black coats gathered thickest, and the tinkling sound of gay laughter and careless persiflage waxed loudest; there he knew he should find Miss Hildreth, for was she not the candle about which the silly moths gathered eagerly, glad to singe their humble wings, or even spend their lives, if only once the flame of her brilliancy might rest upon them, and lift them for a moment from the dull round of commonplace?
The seal she affected was indeed a typical one, he thought, as he moved towards her with a slight smile upon his lips, his face still pale from his recent emotion; and was he any better than his fellows? Were not his unwilling feet moving towards her, drawn as the needle to the magnet? Was not his heart beating tumultuously at the thought of holding her hand in his once more? Was he not, in fact, the silliest of all human moths, since he, who knew by experience the cruelty of that flame, yet sought it wantonly, glad to bask again for a brief half-hour in its baleful light? As he came close to where sat Miss Hildreth, a queen of a mimic court, the knot of adorers and worshippers fell back, and accorded him, as of a right, a free passage to the lady of their allegiance. In a moment the hum of general conversation ceased; even Mrs. Newbold, who had watched his entrance with only half-suppressed excitement, felt the words die upon her lips, while Miss James made no pretence of even listening to her cavalier as she noted with flashing eyes and sullen heart the meeting of these whilom lovers, and Dick Darling, with sympathy written on every line of her fresh young face, laid an impetuous hand on Jack Howard's arm, drawing him a step or two nearer the charmed circle. Thus watched by every eye, and almost in total silence, Mr. Tremain bowed low before Patricia, holding out his hand, as he said in his most deferential tones:
"May I hope that Miss Hildreth still keeps a place for me in her remembrance, although it is so long since we last met?"
And now surely, if ever, Patricia earned for herself the character so freely bestowed upon her, of petulance and inconstancy. She raised her head a trifle haughtily as she replied, and so managed as not to see Mr. Tremain's outstretched hand, while her words fell cold and cutting:
"Can Mr. Tremain expect any woman to remember ten years back and own to it?"
Then she laughed, a cool, well-trained little defiant laugh, and turned nonchalantly to a tall, dark, foreign-looking man, who alone of all her court had refused to fall back as Philip approached her. The slight was a direct one, but if it told, the hurt was invisible to the world, for Mr. Tremain, smiling a little more indulgently, answered her no less coolly:
"That Miss Hildreth should remember the number of years since we met is answer sufficient, and too great an honour."
Then he bowed again, and turned away, and the crowd of eager satellites moved up closer and filled the gap; only Miss James remarked the wave of angry colour that swept across Patricia's face, and for an instant dyed it crimson.
Meantime, Mr. Tremain moved quietly back, and stationed himself where, half-hidden by the heavy falling portières, he could study unseen the face and form of the woman on whom for ten long years he had bestowed the greatest love of his life.
It was with keenest eyes of disapproval that he noted each change in her, changes that to him seemed indicative only of the interior alteration that had come over her, and that while it gave her the polished brilliancy of a costly gem, he felt was gained only by some corresponding loss of heart.
Miss Hildreth was dressed in white, without a spot of colour save for the large bouquet of Parma violets that lay unheeded on her lap. Her costume, though simple in the extreme, yet bore evidence, even to Philip, of its costliness, and reminded him sadly, with its soft silken folds and filmy laces, of the dress in which he had last seen her. Evidently these baubles of fashion had not lost their charm to Patricia. Mr. Tremain in his character of critic saw only artificiality in each little curl that formed the coronal of soft, dusky hair, crowning the small delicate head; he read worldliness in each guarded laugh, each well-modulated tone; he descried vanity and pride in the very gestures of her hands—those little hands that had once rested so trustingly in his, and on which he had showered so many hot, youthful kisses. He noted every turn of her head, every line of her sweet face, every movement of the slim upright form, and to him it seemed as though a cold hard imperceptible coating of worldly artifice and selfishness wrapped her around and about, as hard and keen and impregnable as any corslet of triply-tried steel, from which all shafts of remembrance, affection, compassion, or naturalness, glanced off harmless, not leaving even a dent behind upon the polished surface.
This, then, was Patricia after ten long years? This was the woman of his love. This was the wilful Patty for whom Esther Newbold had pleaded so generously, and towards whom his heart had become as wax in the fire of tender remembrance. This was the reality of his vision; he had come from the presence of that spiritual Patty face to face with the real Patricia, and so coming his heart and soul had been moved with love and compassion towards her; he had yearned to make all right between them, to forget the past, to knit together the broken skein of their two lives, to be, in fact, magnanimous and generous, to hold out the hand of forgiveness and reconciliation, and to welcome in return a heart-broken, remorseful, penitent Patricia, who should fall upon his heart with glad gratitude, while she owned herself vanquished and grateful for the immensity of his goodness and patronage.
And he had found instead of this imaginary Patty a woman of the world, unmoved by his presence, irresponsive to his generosity, unconscious of her own shortcomings, unremorseful for the past, in fact, forgetful of it and of him; who, with cool insolence, overlooked his outstretched hand, and, with the well-bred impertinence of her class, made plain her indifference to him. Well, and was he not right when he told Esther Newbold that he would not consent again to play the fool to a woman's vanity? Had he not read aright Miss Hildreth's character when she scorned him ten years ago, and withdrew her love, because of his poverty and his bucolic indifference to the petits soins of her every-day life? Had he judged her too harshly? No; a thousand times no! Her character was but in bud then, and he had only too well foreseen how bitter would be the blossom, though so fair in outward seeming.
Ah, well! Let the dream vanish, the vision fade! He had been but allured by the Lorelei of desire, and, however near he had approached to the scorching flame of her seductions, he had come forth unscathed.
His meditations were here interrupted by a touch on his shoulder, and George Newbold's pleasant voice in his ear.
"I say, Tremain, I want to introduce some one to you——. Oh, no, my good fellow, not a woman; I am too much your friend to betray you in such a fashion. It's a man for whom I bespeak your politeness—a man, and not a brother, since he is a foreigner."
Mr. Newbold, after this, for him, very long speech, stopped to take breath, and, as he did so, patted Philip affectionately on the shoulder.
"There he is," he continued, presently, moving Mr. Tremain about, and motioning towards the crowd that still surrounded the spot where sat Patricia. "Don't you see him? Tall, dark man, pasty face and black eyes, wears a red ribbon in his button-hole that fetches all the women—there, bending over Miss Hildreth! By Jove! he's scarcely left her side since I presented him. She's a witch, is Miss Patty—a witch, with a long head, and minus a broomstick."
"Who is he?" asked Philip, not particularly impressed by the stranger's appearance. "Where on earth did you pick him up, and what the devil made you bring him down here?"
"He picked me up, don't you see?" replied George Newbold, not in the least put out by Philip's evident bad temper. "Found him at the Club—the Union, you know. Townsend had introduced him, and made him a stranger member. He brought a line of introduction to Townsend from Jim Goelet, who knew him in Paris. Townsend said he had been asking for me—knew my name, he said, from hearing the Goelets speak of me so often—awfully kind of Jim and Ada, I'm sure—so he wanted to know me, and I couldn't do less than be civil, so I asked him down for the theatricals—my birthday, you know—and he leaped at my fly at once, so here he is."
"I don't like him," said Mr. Tremain, didactically. "What's his name, Newbold, and where does he hail from?"
"Here's his card," replied George, pulling it out of his waistcoat-pocket. "I thought I had better be sure about it because of introducing him, you know. The women do get so savage when you leave a fellow's patronymic vague. Bless them, the dears! They've got their 'Almanach de Gotha' at their fingers' ends, and know to a fraction's nicety just how cordial they should be to each individual mother's son of them. So many smiles and graciousness to the elder son of a peer, so many less to an Honourable, and so many less again to a younger detrimental. The women of this country, my dear Tremain, are mad, simply mad over titles. It's the irony of history. What our forefathers fought and died for—equality, and the abolishment of mere hereditary rights—their grandchildren fall down and worship. For my part, I wonder the stern old Puritans don't turn in their graves with horror!"
The card which Mr. Tremain held bore the name of Count Vladimir Mellikoff, and had no address save a pencilled one—"Brevoort House"—in one corner. The bit of paste-board was as non-committal as the stranger's face.
"Is he a Russian?" asked Philip.
"It looks so, doesn't it?" was the careless reply. "'A Roosian or a Proosian,' but certainly not 'an Englishman.' Perhaps he's a Nihilist in disguise, perhaps he's a dynamiter, or a Land-leaguer, or a red-handed Communist, who knows? At any rate, he's got his match in Miss Patty; never saw such a case of 'bowl over' at first sight in my life, never, I give you my word."
But Philip failed to rejoice in Mr. Newbold's hilarity; and that gentleman strolled off presently, in his peculiarly aimless fashion, and securing Count Vladimir Mellikoff by the simple device of slipping his hand within his arm, led him up to Philip, presenting him with all due ceremony.
Mr. Tremain, contrary to the traditions of his country, and taking a leaf from Patricia's own book, passed by the foreigner's outstretched hand, and with a somewhat forbidding manner and bow, entered into conversation.
Count Vladimir, however, was not to be easily distanced or put down; he could with rare tact suit his manner and his words to the individual of the moment who formed his audience; so now, with his usual keen insight, while discovering Mr. Tremain's half-formed distrust and dislike, he also recognised his superior intellect and position, and set himself to work at once to dispel the unfavourable impression he had made. He had not learned his earliest lessons in diplomacy at Europe's politest Court, Petersburg, for nothing, therefore it was not long before Philip found his suspicions and scepticism melting beneath the charm of his manner, and his cultivated, modest conversation. He learned without trouble, that Count Mellikoff was travelling in the States for pleasure principally, though with a suspicion of political business to give interest to his visit; that he was a diplomat by birth and training, and a loyal servant to the present Tsar of all the Russias, whom he served with the like love and fidelity he had formerly bestowed upon Alexander II.
He was a distinguished-looking man, rather than handsome, with an air of breeding and distinction in the thin face, keen small black eyes, aquiline nose and broad, rather pointed forehead. His manners were self-possessed and quiet, he spoke English fluently, and in a pleasantly modulated voice, while the few gestures he used were indicative of absolute self-control. Mr. Tremain soon discovered that nothing escaped his observation, he was aware of every movement of the various groups scattered about the drawing-rooms, and while apparently absorbed in the topic of the moment, had the attribute of prescience so widely developed as to be conscious of the general tone of conversation throughout the room.
Philip acknowledged himself fascinated, and ere long dropping his habitual reserve, he entered cordially into Count Vladimir's graphic descriptions of life in Petersburg. By degrees the conversation glided on to more intimate grounds, and Philip found himself asking somewhat bold questions as to a certain Russian practice in which he had long been much interested. Count Mellikoff replied frankly and with great openness, and only laughed a little indulgently when Mr. Tremain advanced gingerly upon the spy system of the Tsar's Government. His remarks were firm and to the point, and the Count became more and more earnest as he refuted them, giving his interlocutor, every now and then, a keen and searching look.
"You cannot deny, Count Mellikoff," said Mr. Tremain at last, speaking with more than his usual animation, "that the spy system, as practised by your Government, makes of every true Russian a special constable, whose work is well understood, and whose life is devoted to the espionage, not only of suspects, but of every Russian citizen. You become, in fact, individual policemen, and you each watch the other with keenest scrutiny, ready at any moment to denounce and arrest each other."
"Why should I deny it, my dear sir?" answered the Count, very quietly. "It would be but useless waste of breath on my part, since all the world looks with awe and wonder on the workings of the Imperial Chancellerie of Petersburg. Nay, so far from denying it, let me give you some faint idea of its workings, and of the far-reaching, all-powerful engines it employs. Our system is divided into two sections, one of which is devoted to all international or foreign questions; the other deals only with the surveillance of the Tsar's subjects, who, for the time being, are non-resident or abroad. Our agents of the first section are generally well known; as a rule they make no secret of their connection with the Imperial Chancellerie, and they consist of both sexes and of all classes. Indeed, we find our cleverest work often accomplished by ladies. I need but mention Madame Novikoff, whose influence and power over a certain Premier of England is but a matter of common on dits, and who, at one time, seriously affected the foreign policy of Great Britain. That work accomplished, she has wrought further mischief to Her Majesty's Government by encompassing the defection of Dhuleep Singh and enrolling him under Russia's flag. It is not beside the question, sir, if, in the future, he does not become a source of trouble to the British authorities at Calcutta. That, sir, is one woman's work. On the Continent, again, I could point out to you, in almost every city of importance, a like emissary. In Paris there was the charming Princess Lise Troubetskoi, followed now by that Marquis de —— and his fascinating wife, whose hotel is the gathering-place of all the élite, and whose identity is as strictly unknown now as when first they startled all Paris by the magnificence of their entertainments. At Brussels you will find Madame de M——; at Dresden, the Countess de B——; in Switzerland, the Prince A. P——; and at Rome, the Marquise di P——. Even Egypt is not forgotten, and in the Countess J—— Russia finds an able coadjutor, whose position as lady-in-waiting to the vice-Queen gains for us many secrets communicated by the British Government to the Khedive. And even you, sir, must remember the great noise regarding Madame Blavatsky, who, as the priestess of theosophy, for many years carried on a secret correspondence with Monsieur Zinovieff, then Chief of the Asiatic Department of the Foreign Office, and with Prince Doudaroff Korsakoff, Governor-General of the Caucasus? But for Lord Dufferin's clear-sightedness, Madame might still be carrying on her patriotic work."
"You astonish me, Count Mellikoff," said Mr. Tremain, as his informant stopped to draw breath; "I knew that 'the little father' held undoubted sway over all his own vast territory, but not that he bisected other nations with such regular and effective engines."
Count Mellikoff smiled, and the fire in his deep-set eyes leapt up, as he answered:
"Sir, this is but a small portion of the all-powerful protection bestowed on his children by our father, the Tsar. Even here, in your own land of equality and freedom, his emissaries are ever at work, and from every capital of Europe, indeed from many insignificant towns and villages, there go forth daily weekly or monthly reports to the Imperial Chancellerie at Petersburg. Is it not useless, then, for any one individual to fight against so omnipotent and universal a power?"
"Worse than useless, I should say," replied Philip, wondering within himself as he spoke, what part was played in the great political drama by this same quiet, well-bred gentleman who stood before him.
"But this," continued Count Mellikoff, smiling again, and turning his intensely black eyes, in which no pupil was visible, but all seemed iris, full upon Mr. Tremain, "this is but one section of the great organisation, and in some ways the most insignificant. The second section, which has to do directly with the Tsar's subjects abroad, is of much vaster proportions, and wields a far greater power. If you will permit me, sir, to introduce dry statistics?" And the Count drew from his pocket a small but substantial note-book, which he held unopened, waiting for Mr. Tremain's reply.
Philip bowed a trifle impatiently, as he said: "I beg you will continue, Count Mellikoff; statistics are the back-bone of political economics in all countries; to me they bear a special charm."
"I thank you, sir," replied the Count, who evidently was a literal translator of the polite Gaelic, Monsieur. He opened the note-book, and turned over the pages carefully and with a practised hand.
"Ah!" he said at last, "I have it. Listen, sir, to a quotation from the reports of the Chancellerie: 'In the year 1884, no less than 890,318 Russian subjects of the Tsar crossed the Western frontier, for the purpose of paying more or less prolonged visits to foreign countries. The next year the numbers had increased to 920,563;' and you must bear in mind that I do not exaggerate when I assert that every one of these travellers is subjected to the same amount of espionage abroad as at home. Their every movement is noted, every remark reported, every change of residence recorded. There lives no true-born and loyal Russian who is not bound by conscience, if not by oath, to report to Petersburg anything that may seem to him suspicious, or amiss, in any of his fellow-countrymen. It may be only a word, a look, a letter, a handshake, nothing is too trivial, because out of trivialities have grown the great revolutions of the world. You may be living in India, China, England, or America; you may be rich and noble, or poor and dependent; if you are one of the Tsar's children, you may be very sure that every day and hour of your life is known, nay, is commented upon and discussed within the Imperial Chancellerie, no matter how many thousands of miles of sea and land separate you from Russia. At any moment the Tsar can call you to account; he is no respecter of persons; it may be the highest noble at the Court, the poorest serf on the steppes, the fashionable beauty of the hour, the hired governess of your children, the maid of your toilette, the valet de place; the very highest and the very lowest, one and all must obey when the voice of the Tsar of all the Russians speaks the word of command. No crime can be so hidden but it will be unearthed, no reparation accepted unless appointed by Imperial edict, no forgiveness sanctioned unless granted by word of the Tsar. Said I not right, sir, is it not a grand and wonderful system, this that puts to shame Nature's barriers, and acknowledges no limits to its power, save its own Imperial will?"
Count Mellikoff ceased speaking, and Philip, looking at him, saw his face for one moment lit with the mocking fires of conscious malignity and indomitable, cruel perseverance. For one moment only; but in that moment the fierce light of his eyes seemed to scorch all who came within its radiance—nay, seemed even to traverse the long room and touch Patricia with its malevolence. Then the passion faded, and the Count stood quietly before him, a smile on his lips, the black note-book clasped firmly between the long, thin fingers of both hands.
Mr. Tremain felt all his original dislike and mistrust rush full upon him once more. He for one moment felt actual hatred for this calm, composed foreigner, and his quiet, well-tutored face, his low voice and persuasive manner, and, above all, for the horrible system of torture and surveillance he upheld as his tenets and dogma. He gave a short, hard laugh as he replied:
"I cannot compliment you, Count Mellikoff, on either section of your system. To me, as I said before, you all appear to act only as special police spies, each one ready and eager to betray the other should occasion arise, and each knowing the other to hold this power over him. You have interested me deeply; but, pardon me, I cannot jump with you the entire length of the Tsar's fatherly protection, as exemplified by the Imperial Chancellerie. I have an old-fashioned prejudice in favour of individual free will and independence."
Count Mellikoff made a slight bow, and the smile on his lips deepened as he answered:
"At least, sir, you will pay us this justice, you never hear one Russian speak evil of another (I speak, of course, only of those of a certain social standing), nor will our ambassadors give any direct information to foreigners concerning any fugitive from justice, no matter how doubtful and suspicious their actions may appear. With us, sir, loyalty to our great Tsar and to his Government go hand-in-hand with our lives."
Mr. Tremain replied only by a gesture of assent, for, as he began to speak, George Newbold came up to him once more, and carried him off, with a hurried apology to the Count.
"We want him, you see. Many pardons, but he is needed for rehearsal. I'll be back directly," and Philip, thus hustled away, had no time to explain.
Count Vladimir Mellikoff stood very still for some moments after Philip left him; the lines of care and thought that were graven innumerably about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, came forth with startling prominence, and gave a crafty, sceptical look to his countenance; his eyes gleamed in their hollow sockets, his lips moved quickly, and then, with a sudden upward gesture of his right hand, he put back the note-book in his pocket, and, turning, walked slowly back to where he had left Patricia surrounded by her gay adorers.
The room, however, was empty now, and had Miss Hildreth been in very deed but a vision of his own creating she could not have vanished more completely—not a trace of her remained. The great carved chair in which she had sat was pushed hastily back, and about it, grouped in confusion, stood the ottomans, stools, causeuses and low fauteuils, in which her train of devotees had reposed themselves, all equally unoccupied now. Not a trace of the queen of the revels, or her light-hearted companions, remained—not one. Yet stay; what is this lying on the floor, half-hidden by the fallen satin cushion of her chair? This bit of finest muslin and filmy lace, dropped or forgotten by Patricia as she moved away indifferent, yet alive, to every note of praise or flattery that rang about her.
Count Mellikoff crossed the room with noiseless footsteps, bent down and picked up the dainty morsel; it proved to be a lady's handkerchief, and in the corner were an embroidered crest, and the initials A. de L. The Count gave one long-drawn sigh, almost a gasp, and then with dexterous fingers folded the delicate article neatly and placed it in an inner pocket of his waistcoat. He smiled as he did so, and said, half aloud:
"There's treason in every inch of that cambric and lace! Ah, madame, how we overreach ourselves sometimes, and how the odour of violets clings to every thread of this little traitor!"
Then he turned and walked down the empty room, and as he reached the heavily-draped doors dividing the drawing-rooms from the music-hall, one of the curtains was pulled further aside, and he came face to face with Miss Rosalie James.