And so it happened. Styr, her engagement finished, but still exalted with the intoxication of song, after one long look about her, leaned both hands on the railing of the bridge and stared down into the wild depths below. The grip of the bridge on the rocks was none too secure; a landslip, such as occurred daily in the Alps, and she would lie shattered below. But she enjoyed the hint of danger and might have stood motionless for an hour, warm as she was in her white woollen draperies, had not a footstep made her move her shoulders impatiently. She supposed it to be a lackey with a superfluous wrap, and did not move again until aware that some one stood beside her on the bridge. Then she turned with a start and faced Ordham. She knew at once who he must be; Princess Nachmeister often talked of her favourite, and had told her that he was a guest at the castle to-night. His audacity in approaching her and in such circumstances took away her breath. But only for an instant. She drew herself up with a majesty few queens have had sufficient practice to attain. Her height nearly matched his—not quite; he thanked his stars that she was compelled to look up at him; and she did look the cold astonishment her lips would not frame.
“I could not think of letting you return to the castle alone, Countess Tann,” said Ordham, gently, “even if those lackeys were not too stupid to think of coming for you. I am sure this forest is full of peasants; they must have known of the concert. They may be harmless, but as the King’s only guest of his own sex, and as he is unable to look after you himself—I am sure you will forgive me. How could I remain quiet in the castle while you found your way back alone? I should be a barbarian.”
There was no trace of emotion or even of admiration in his face, merely the natural courtesy of a gentleman, perhaps a touch of boyish knightliness. And certainly he was a mere boy, Margarethe Styr reflected. In that white downpour, that has rejuvenated many a battered visage, he looked—she groped for the word—virginal. And his steady gaze had never wavered before the haughty inquiry of hers. This young man might or might not be as innocent as he looked, but his perfect breeding, which she instantly divined to be an integral part of him, appealed to the woman who had so often found polished manners a brittle veneer. Moreover, she was as amused at his ruse, which had not deceived her for a moment, as she felt herself compelled to admire his strategic cleverness. Then she abruptly asked herself the question that perhaps the immortal goddesses asked in their day, “Why not?” and bent her head pleasantly.
“Thank you,” she said. “Of course you are Mr. Ordham. Thank you many times for thinking of me. Shall we walk a little? I should not stand too long after singing.”
He was so taken aback by the swiftness of his triumph that diffidence overwhelmed him, and he stammered: “You are sure you would not like another wrap? I can fetch one in a moment.”
“I am very warmly clad. Do not bother.” She did not notice his relapse and asked him idly if he had enjoyed her singing.
“Oh—enjoy! Please do not tempt me into banalities. It was much too wonderful to talk about. I should like to talk to you—about a hundred other things. I know your voice—I have never missed one of your nights since I came to Munich. But I do not know you at all. This is the blessed opportunity.”
He had had time to recover himself, and he watched her intently. Her eyes, which had hung before his mental vision like two tragic suns, flashed with amusement.
“Do you know that I have lived in Munich for six years and not had five minutes’ conversation with any man alone, except on business relating to the Hof? Much less have I ‘known’ any one.”
“But you can’t go on forever like that. If you weren’t fundamentally human, you could not be a great artist; and if you are human, you must crave some sort of companionship. Are you never quite horribly lonely?”