He spoke, urged by present rather than past passion; eagerly as he was watching for it, he could detect no sign that his burning words touched her.
“I went,” he continued, “to Vaux House that night desperately determined to make one last effort for—no, not for your love, that I knew to be a miracle beyond that night’s working—but for your toleration; for a kind look, a smile, a dance, the touch of your hand, the sound of your voice; just a crumb, even to the mocking of my hunger.”
He paused. Alexia sat with averted face, motionless as a statue, yet with the suggestion of being keenly attentive. If he expected her to speak, her attitude never flattered him that she would break her silence.
“I little knew,” he resumed, “to what fate I was going. That the racking torture I suffered could be heightened was inconceivable. Ah! I never imagined then the depths of despair, and worse, to which love can lead a man. Up to the moment I entered Vaux House I had suffered, Heaven knows how greatly, from your coldness, from your rejection of all my advances, from, as I flattered myself, your misjudgment of me, but, except negatively, I had been free from the hell’s torture of jealousy. Now you can comprehend something of my mind on that fateful night?”
She made, almost indifferently, a slight inclination of the head; not looking towards him, or giving any further sign of sympathy.
He proceeded. “My story shall not be long now. I saw you, and watched you dancing, watched you enviously, longingly. Still there was just a spark left in the ashes of my hopes, which at our first meeting had blazed up so brightly. I was awaiting my opportunity, and presently it seemed to have come. I had seen you leave the ball-room; I slipped out by another door intending to make my way round and meet you; anticipating, hoping that, by biding my time, I might find you alone. Accordingly I worked my way round by the outer suite of rooms till I came to the point where I calculated we might meet. I was not wrong. I saw you in the room beyond with two men, one of whom was Captain Martindale. The other man went away; you and Martindale spoke together, and then, evidently at his suggestion, you and he strolled towards an inner room, a flirtation corner. You remember?”
Again she nodded gravely, speaking no word. “You did not notice me,” Gastineau resumed. “Your talk with Martindale was too engrossing; confidential enough to make me burn with jealousy. At the door of the inner room you hesitated. It was natural, having regard to your partner’s reputation. He laid his hand upon your arm, urging you to go in. You shook off his grasp—there was a thrill of satisfaction to me in that,—he went on a pace, persuading you to follow. I watched anxiously for the result, meaning to accost you should you turn back. But he prevailed, and you went slowly after him into the room. Ah! how I hated him! How I tried to think the worse of you for yielding. I quietly crossed the room to the doorway through which you had disappeared, my mad jealousy making me careless of what I did. At the door I stopped and listened. I could hear your voices in the room beyond, but not your words. Making a slight change in my position, my foot touched something hard on the carpet. It was the little jewelled sword, the hair ornament. Instantly I recognized it as yours; you may be sure that every detail of your appearance was familiar to me. I took it up eagerly. At last, Countess, you have the solution of that element in the mystery.”
“Yes.” The monosyllable sounded cold, almost resentful.
“Chance,” he continued, as coolly now as though he were opening a case in Court, “had given me an excuse for breaking in upon your flirtation, of spoiling Martindale’s opportunity, but jealousy kept me back; hurry would spoil my chance of appearing at the critical moment. I tried to catch a glimpse of you, but could not; to have passed through the doorway would have meant to show myself. But I saw in my difficulty that there seemed to be another entrance to the room. If I could get round that way I might hear what Martindale was saying. The thought uppermost in my mind was to protect you from him, a man of notoriously bad principles where women were concerned; you may believe me, Countess, when I say that jealousy did not altogether account for my resolve to intervene. It was bad enough to fail to win you; to lose you to a man of Martindale’s character was not to be endured. I went quickly back and through another room which I knew must lead from that in which you stayed. I opened the communicating door quietly; as luck would have it a portière hung beyond it; behind this I could stand, in the room, yet unseen. I am telling you everything, Countess, exactly as it happened; palliating nothing, excusing nothing, save on the ground of the devouring love that had possession of me.”
If he looked for a softening of her attitude, none was visible; it was simply attentive without a sign of feeling. “I stood there,” he resumed, as though now desirous to make an end quickly, “listening with jealous ears. Your voices were so low that I could hear little of your talk, which was all the worse for my state of mind. But presently a word reached my ears like a stab. It stung me out of my restraint. I pulled aside the curtain and looked into the room. I saw—the kiss.”