‘Ah, Mercia, why spoil those eyes more beautiful than the brightest star in gazing into unknown regions day and night; year in, year out? Thou knowest no enjoyment—thou hast no pleasure of life, as other women; thine existence is lonely—colourless. Drink of the draught of love as nature wills it, and let the study of the stars stand over for a space.’
The voice of Felicitas as he uttered these words was low, but full of passion; but Mercia, owing to the confusion that covered her, did not notice the change of tone. The king’s words had indeed evoked emotions in her breast that for years she had kept in strict abeyance: now, these throbbed and pulsated through her frame with such force that she became dumb, tongue-tied; at this inopportune moment a knock was heard at the door, and the Emperor himself touched the electric button, when the door opened of itself and gave admittance to another visitor.
It was only Geometrus who had returned for a part of an instrument he was making, which he had inadvertently left behind; his entrance, however, put a prompt stoppage to the Emperor’s love-making; and Mercia, hardly knowing what she was doing rose from her seat and turned to leave the apartment; observing her intention the Emperor concluded that it was time to withdraw.
‘Farewell, mistress,’ he said lightly, as he made her a bow, ‘I will come again, ere long and learn of thee the sun’s condition which is so necessary to be acquainted with.’
It was the fashion at this time to call a woman ‘Mistress,’ whether married or single. The abbreviation ‘Mrs.’ was discarded, as was also ‘Madam’ borrowed from the French, and the old English style resumed in their stead; while ‘Miss’ was applied only to children. The married woman was distinguished from the unmarried by the possession of two surnames,—her father’s and husband’s, while the single woman was known by her father’s name only.
Mercia, in order to escape from observation quickly made her way into her most private apartment, and shutting herself safely within she sank upon the silken couch, and gave way to the tumult of feelings that overwhelmed her.
What did the Emperor mean by counselling her to relax in her duties and give way to the passion of love? she asked herself. Was he putting her probity to the test, merely to ascertain of what stuff she was made? or was it only a random shot on his part, made for mere amusement, but which had unwittingly touched her deepest feelings? Did he suspect her affection for Geometrus?—but that was impossible; not a living soul knew that she loved this man, not even Geometrus himself. Had Geometrus betrayed himself in any way? Was it possible that in some unguarded moment he had spoken of his passion for her to some friend who had afterwards betrayed him to the Emperor? No, that was impossible. Geometrus would not dare to speak of that which he was prohibited from even hinting at to herself. Had some person, envious of her position, invented some tale, and carried it to Felicitas with a view of bringing about her downfall? If so, who could it be? Was it Heinrich, the German, who longed for her post, and had he done this dishonourable thing to obtain it?
Then the thought crossed her mind of the possibility that the Emperor might have been saying something for himself, of which the bare idea brought the crimson to her cheeks: but this solution of the question she endeavoured promptly to dismiss, for Felicitas was already married, and to offer her, Mercia, an illicit love would be an unparalleled presumption, even from an Emperor.
‘What can have put this abominable thought into my head?’ she again asked herself. Then she rose from her seat and paced up and down her chamber with perturbed motions and flushed face.
She felt that the whole thing was mystifying to a degree. At length, after much cogitation she concluded to take no further notice of the matter, for it would be undignified to seek explanations either of Geometrus or the Emperor.