She Painted her Face (15 page)

" 'If you think—' you were saying," said Caroline.

"Thank you," said Percy, calmly. "If you think you can get away with a tale like that—"

"D'you mind getting out of this room?"

There was a pregnant silence.

Then I walked to the door.

The Count of Brief glanced at his watch.

"My Heavens, I'm late," he said, and fairly ran out of the room.

" 'Adjourned,' not 'done,' " said Percy, and with that he turned on his heel and followed the other out.

As I shut the door

" 'Such men are dangerous,' " said Herrick, and put on Caroline's hat.

For a quarter of an hour we talked. Then she and I left for the stables, and Herrick went to the tower. But long before then my inventory was complete. The door to the landing had a Yale lock, but no bars.

There was no mark upon Caesar, and if his legs had been tender he now was perfectly sound. The grooms had seen nothing when he came in. Two other good-looking hunters were each let out of his box, and Caroline bade me choose one "for to-morrow at seven o'clock." And then she gave her orders, and we went down to the garden and up to the belvedere.

There was that about her which turned this into a bower.

Sitting sideways, half on and half off the grey of the parapet, backed by the living green of the jealous boughs, a stave of the evening sunshine touching her lovely hair, she seemed to have found her true setting for the very first time; yet this was a fanciful notion, soon to be falsified, because wherever she went her surroundings appeared to become her as never before. I cannot pay her a finer compliment.

For all that, sitting there on the stone, for me she embodied for ever those pretty princesses that live In the fairy-tales, that lean from turret windows and gallop down forest glades, and I found myself the youth that was seeking his fortune, to whom the princess was gracious because the great tradition must be observed.

"How d'you do, Richard Exon?"

I took her hand and kissed it.

"The better for seeing you."

"Does that mean that you have missed me?"

"Yes," said I. "At every hour of the day."

Caroline nodded contentedly.

"I like to hear you say it," she said.

I wrenched my mind from her beauty to other things.

"Was that Elsa who fetched us?" I said.

"It was."

"Are you sure of her? I'm not mad about her, myself."

Caroline laughed.

"My dear, you see a robber in every bush. Elsa is a maid in a thousand— and true as steel."

"Is she going to sleep in your suite?"

She nodded.

"By your request."

"I— I didn't specify Elsa," said I, uneasily.

Caroline knitted her brows.

"Richard, be reasonable. You've seen her for less than two minutes; and I have known her well for nearly four years. And if anyone is to sleep there, it must be she. If I were to choose someone else, I might as well say to Elsa, I don't trust you.' "

"Yes, I see that," I sighed. "All the same, you will lock your doors?"

"All five," said Caroline. "Where are the keys?"

"There's only the one you know the one you brought me on Friday, with the rest of my things. That's a master key and fits all five of the locks."

There was a little silence. Then:

"I wish we were at Raven," I said— and spoke as I thought.

"Ah, Raven," said Caroline softly, "with the low of the cows in the meadows and the leap of the fish in the stream— and Winter in his shirt-sleeves, cleaning my buckskin shoes. But Brief is too high and mighty— I think that it always was. And Tracery, too. I was not meant for such things."

"Yes, you were," said I. "You were born to the stalled ox— but not to hatred therewith. If this belvedere were at Raven you'd think it a paradise. And what could be more lovely than the Golden Ride at sunrise? Or the terrace at Tracery under a westering moon? Served without hatred, the stalled ox is splendid fare; but a dinner of herbs would be ruined if Percy sat at the board."

A hand came to rest on my shoulder.

"You say I was born to all this. Did I seem out of place at Raven?"

"You could never seem out of place. But— well, Raven is Brenda's home. She was born and bred to Raven, as you were to this."

"And my happiness does not count?"

"My dear," said I, "it's all that I'm thinking of. But I— have been through the mill. The flesh makes certain demands— according to the condition to which you were born. Think of the winter at Raven— and then at Brief. You take for granted a thousand important things. I did that once— in a very much smaller way. Red Lead Lane was a nightmare; it was a nightmare today. But if I had been still at Oxford, a week-end at Red Lead Lane would have been an amusing experience."

"I wish I'd been there, with you both. And all the time I was here, being waited on hand and foot. And sometimes you went hungry, whilst I was being fed by a chef who gets five hundred a year." She stood up there, and took my lapels in her hands. "I owe you money, don't I?"

"I suppose you do," said I, "but it's not worth talking about."

"Well, I'm not going to pay it back. I'm proud to be in your debt. I'd like everyone to know it. What I really owe you can't be reduced to pounds; If it could, I could never pay it— and you know that as well as I. But this I can pay; but I won't. I asked you to lend me money, and now I won't pay you back. You've piled such mountains between us that let this lift up its head— a sordid little molehill of forty p-paper pounds!"

Before this outburst I stood like a man transfixed, with the breath of her lips on my face, and her eyes, two pools of starlight, reflecting a tiny image I knew was mine.

So for one hungry moment.

Then she clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears.

I would like to be shown the man who would not have gathered her weeping into his arms— and have done his poor best to comfort such beauty in such distress. And for me her hairs were numbered.

Be that as it may, I know she was in my arms, and the world was rocking about me, and stars that I could not see shot out of their spheres, to make another heaven.

I do not know what I said. I think I did no more than say over her name; but, after a little, she wiped the tears from her eyes and put an arm around my neck.

"D'you love me, Richard?"

"Yes," I said. "I cannot tell you how much."

"And will you always love me?"

"Always, my darling."

"And, after this, you will treat me as your equal? And not kneel down and look up, with your eyes on my face?" Caroline insisted.

"I— I will try to, Caroline."

"And you will not do me honour? John Herrick may kiss my hand; but you and I— Won't you ask me if I love you, my darling?"

"I— I'm afraid to, my sweet," I faltered, and held her close.

"Oh, Richard, I've made so much running. Time and again I've given you lead after lead. Yet no one could call me forward who'd seen that look in your eyes. You've cried out that you loved me with them a thousand times. You told me the truth, my darling the moment you knew it yourself— when you'd broken into the tower and I was up at the window and you were holding on to the cage.

"I loved you when first I saw you— I know that now."

"If I hadn't been knocked out, I could say the same. It was because I loved you that I let you carry me off. And that's why I stayed at Raven instead of returning to Brief."

I felt rather dazed. The whole thing was out of order— to put it no higher than that. I had, of course, known that she liked me, and, if I am to be honest, I believed she had let me kiss her because she knew that I loved her and what it would mean to me. But I had never dreamed that she loved me. And now here we were, with desperate issues before us and life and death and fortune flung into the scales, and she and I in the toils of a passionate love affair, which both of us knew was hopeless, Which nobody else must suspect.

On a sudden impulse I moved forward and swept Caroline Into my arms. I looked down at her lovely, eager face.

"Listen," I said. "This it all wrong, and you know it— but I don't care. If you are mad, I'm human. If I'm given my heart's desire, I cannot throw it away. But I will not have you injured by your extravagance. And so we must keep our secret at any cost."

"Yes, yes, I see that. This other stuff must be dealt with— for better or worse. And then—?"

"If Old Harry consents, I will ask you to be my wife."

The beautiful eyes grew wide.

"Since when has the Duchess of Whelp—"

"Since Friday," said I. "You have no father or mother; by doing as you have done you have set her up in their place. For your sake, she has left her retirement and taken the field; she could do no more if you were her only child; and you cannot take such services from such a personage and then deny her the rights of a patroness."

"What d'you think my father would say If he were alive?"

"I know what he'd say," said I, "If he were the Count of Brief."

Caroline sighed.

"You do make things hard, don't you? If you were a racehorse, my darling, you'd have to run in a hood. Still, at least I've managed to get you on to the course. And it's bound to be a walk-over— If only you don't run out."

"I'll never do that," said I.

But I did not say that, as both of us very well knew, fence we ever so wisely, I must be disqualified. Instead, I stooped and kissed her exquisite mouth, and then drew her up to her feet and into my arms

"Why do you love me, Caroline?"

"Because you are strong and gentle and like the things I like. Because you are natural. Because you are Richard Exon and I cannot help myself. And now you tell me."

"Because there is no one like you. Because you have the look of a queen and the way of an Eve. Because your airs and graces are those of the dawn and the dew. Because, with it all, you are human. Because you lift up my heart."

The softest light came stealing into her eyes.

"I like the last reason best."

And there again a feeling of unreality rose as a wave, and I wondered if it was true that Caroline Virgil was actually in my arms, if her eager, parted lips were truly so close upon mine, if it was indeed my image that hung in her peerless eyes. Then the wave sank down unbroken, and I knew that these things were facts.

I believe I began to tremble.

"I have no words," I said hoarsely.

"I can only say that I love you with all my soul."

Caroline put up her hands to frame my face.

"I ask no more," she whispered, and drew down my head to hers.

AS THOUGH inspired by the Count of Brief's evil genius, Old Harry saw fit that evening to wear such a mask as made the blood run cold. Her right hand and her mirror, between them, had taught her terrible things. She had so painted her face that she made me think of some chieftain, arrayed for war, and had tired her head with ear-rings— two monstrous, pear-shaped diamonds that dangled as lustres do, and shuddered brilliance with every movement she made. These things, with her splendid features and piercing eyes, would have dismayed an opponent before she had opened her mouth, and, when she came into the room, I must confess to a feeling of great relief that I was to fight with her and not upon the opposite side.

Here let me say that the game which she played was so cunning that I was soon out of my depth: add to which that she spoke in German which I could not understand. But, since I later knew all, I will set down directly what happened, because my own reactions have nothing to do with the tale.

Old Harry had had Herrick's note. She, therefore, laid herself out to entice the Count on to the ground which Virgil had said was forbidden, three hours before. In a word, she set out to make him put a rope round his neck— a seemingly hopeless task— but not to the Duchess of Whelp, for she turned the rope into a garland, and, after a little, she put the pretty thing on. She handed him memories and then demanded them back; she said he must see her diary; she made the desert of danger bloom with goodwill; arm in arm, they wandered over its borders. By the time that the entree was served, the Count was most deeply committed— and Virgil, whom I was watching, could hardly sit still.

And then, without any warning, Old Harry let fly.

Above our subdued conversation, her voice rang out:

"What became of George Eliot?"

The table was round, and I was facing the Count, so I saw him well.

A servant was presenting a dish, but, because of this startling query, his master had no mind to spare and the man stood beside him unnoticed— except by everyone else.

Even at a literary luncheon, the question, so suddenly put, might well have disconcerted a wiser man; as it was, its striking irrelevance hit the Count over the heart.

He stared upon the Duchess, who had coolly returned to her plate, as though she had asked him whether his soul was saved; then he lifted his eyes to Virgil's— to read an interpretation which brought the sweat on to his face.

He shot a glance round the table, and a hand went up to his mouth

Old Harry looked up from her plate.

"What became of George Eliot?' I said."

Somehow the man made answer.

"George Eliot, madam? Now let me see—"

The Duchess stared.

"George Eliot. I think the edition we had—"

"Edition?" cried the Duchess. "Edition? What ever d'you mean?"

There was a painful silence.

The servant presenting the dish stood up and looked round for guidance; but Bertram, who had come to his help, was staring upon his master with saucer eyes. The latter wiped the sweat from his brow.

"My memory," he said, "is uncertain. You have revived it, madam, to some extent, but—"

"You remembered our visit to Palfrey, where the pictures were going to be sold. And your father saw one of George Eliot—"

Her victim leapt at the bait.

"Oh, now I have you, madam. The picture, you mean. For the moment—"

"Picture? Is one of us mad? I asked what became of George Eliot." She threw a glance round. "Is there nobody here to support me— when I say that that is something which Rudolf of Brief should know?"

Her eyes came to rest upon Bertram.

"Steward, I know your face. Were you here when I came?"

In some emotion, Bertram inclined his head.

"I was here, your Grace."

"Who was George Eliot?"

"His lordship's pet spaniel, your Grace."

"By Heaven, so he was," mouthed the Count. "To think I'd forgotten—"

"So what was?" said the Duchess. Her victim clawed at the cloth.

"The dog, madam. The—"

"George Eliot was a dog," said the Duchess. And then:

"What became of her, Brief? What became of Rudolf's pet spaniel— that never would let her master out of her sight?"

I shall always remember that moment that held so much and shall always see the three faces of those concerned. Old Harry's, keen and relentless, seemed cut out of painted stone: the Count's was a mask of wet grey, with lines that gave the impression of having been drawn with blue chalk: and Bertram's was tense and bloodless— the face of a man who is waiting to hear some monstrous suspicion smothered at birth.

Twice the Count tried to answer, and twice he failed.

At the third attempt:

"Madam," he croaked, "I have told you that my memory—"

"What became of George Eliot, steward?"

"His lordship shot her, your Grace, because she was going blind."

"Himself? His favourite dog?"

"He would let no one else do it, your Grace. And no one, except his lordship, knows where she lies."

The Duchess returned to the Count.

"D'you remember it now?"

Somehow the man made answer.

"I remember— that I shot her— myself."

Old Harry lunged.

"In that case, you can tell me her colour."

The silence which succeeded this challenge dragged at the nerves, and I was really quite thankful when Virgil, in desperation, put in his oar.

"Madam, you are dealing with matters which my uncle has fought to forget."

Old Harry raised her eyebrows.

"That explanation is one which I am not prepared to accept. I'll tell you why. It's too easy. There's something very wrong here— and I'm glad that I came." She turned to survey the oarsman. "Why are you here?"

"Madam," said Virgil, "this is my father's home."

"I know that better than you. I asked why you were here."

"I have no other home, madam."

"Indeed," said Old Harry. "Where is your father now?"

"My father," said Virgil, "is dead.''

"When did he die?"

"At least ten years ago, madam."

"In that case he's been resurrected before his time I must get into touch with him. I know he was living in London a year ago."

The Count of Brief leaned forward.

"Madam," he gasped, "this is very painful to me."

"Then it shouldn't be," said Old Harry. "Mistakes have been made before now, and I'm not at all certain your brother wasn't an innocent man."

Virgil whipped into the breach, before the Count could reply.

"In that case, madam, there's only one thing to be done. May I have my father's address?"

"I'm afraid," said Old Harry, "your filial affection must wait. I'll deal with this matter myself. And when I have talked with your father, I'll let you know. I expect he, too, has fought to forget the past. But he may have been— less successful. However, we'll very soon know. I'll write to my agent tonight." She returned to the Count, whose head was shaking a little, as that of a very old man. "He will ask your brother two questions, and send his answers to me. The first will be this— What was George Eliot's colour?"

The Count half rose from his chair. "Madam, I protest."

"Protest and be hanged," said Old Harry. "Whelp is not Whelp for nothing, and I was a friend of your father's before you were born."

"But what can that prove?" cried the Count. "If he tells you George Eliot's colour, what can that prove?" His voice rose into a scream, and he smacked the cloth. "That can prove nothing, madam— nothing at all, except that he can remember what I have contrived to forget," and with that he sank back, breathing hard, with the air of a man who knows he has made a mistake and yet must needs go on because he cannot retire.

"Quite so," said the Duchess, "quite so. But the second question will be much harder than that. Where is George Eliot buried?" She set her arm on the table and dropped her chin to her palm. "If he answers that, I think that that will prove something— and prove it up to the hilt."

With that, she left the Count and sat back in her chair.

"And now let's change the subject. Richard, I beg your pardon for speaking in German till now. Caroline, dear, that's a highly becoming frock. But then you'd distinguish sackcloth. What does John Herrick think?"

"Madam," said Herrick, "she'd get away with linoleum, if you ask me. I've got a sonnet to her collar-bone half done."

"John," said Caroline firmly, "throws back to the cap and bells."

Old Harry smiled.

"And Richard to some crusader that's clear as paint— while you, of course, belong to The Golden World. And now let's return to the present. What do you do, Percy Virgil? Or are you just— decorative?"

His eyes like slits:

"Madam," said Virgil, "I make the most of my time."

"That," said the Duchess, "is a very beautiful phrase. And I hope you know what it means, for I'm dashed If I do."

Percy Virgil swallowed.

"I have many interests, madam."

"That sounds very well," said Old Harry. "What may they be? Do you visit the sick at all?"

"I travel," said Virgil, thickly.

"What in?" said Old Harry. "Or don't you earn any bread?"

"I— I can't say I do," said Virgil.

"Well, well," said the Duchess softly, "each to his taste. But I'd rather push button boots than batten upon a bounty that wasn't mine." She looked across at Herrick. "How's that for alliteration?"

"Truly Virgilian, madam. And I'm glad you believe in 'B.' It's a valuable consonant."

Old Harry leaned back and laughed till the tears came Into her eyes.

I glanced at the Count.

The man was sitting up straight and was staring directly before him, but not at me. It was plain that his eyes saw nothing that eyes can see, that apprehension possessed him body and soul. And this, I think, was natural, for the Duchess had hit very hard. She had publicly forced the cupboard in which his skeleton stood, and had hung the sword of vengeance over his head. And this after twenty-two years.

I glanced at Bertram, the steward.

He had returned to his place, four paces to the left of his master, from which he could watch the table and intercept the servants who moved to and fro. But he was not watching the table. His eyes were fast on the Count. And that, too, I think, was natural, for his father had been steward before him. and he was the third generation to serve the house; and servants of standing like that are more jealous of seigniory's rights than are the seigniors themselves. And now, after twenty-two years...

As I returned to the Count, he seemed to take hold of himself; a shiver ran through his limbs, and a hand went out to his wine; and then he was glancing about him as though to take up his place. But the look on his face was haunted, and he might have been twenty years older than when he sat down.

Virgil was addressing Caroline, who sat between Herrick and me.

"You seem to know your neighbours remarkably well."

My lady looked right and left.

"I'm glad of that," she said. "I shouldn't like people to think that we weren't on good terms."

"You need have no fear," said Virgil, and fingered his chin. "And yet I remember a time when you found a far longer acquaintance not long enough to warrant the calling of Christian names."

"So do I," said Caroline calmly "The man was a friend of yours. He was also a rich French Jew— entirely and utterly leprous, body and soul."

"Who invited him here?" said Old Harry.

"Madam," said Virgil, "my cousin is prejudiced."

"It seems with reason. I asked who invited him here?"

"My uncle was good enough, madam, to do as I wished."

"In his daughter's teeth? You might be the son of the house."

"An Impression, madam, I hope very soon to correct. If you'd give me my father's address, I would ask your Grace to excuse me and leave tonight."

"A very natural instincts— to fly to his side. But I fear you might exceed your instructions; whereas I can count on my agent—"

"To do as you say?"

"To the letter," replied Old Harry. "And he's such an efficient man. And now let's return to the guest of whom we were speaking Just now. Why did you wish such a charmer invited to Brief?"

"Madam," said Virgil, "he was a friend of mine."

"Does he still enjoy that honour?"

With goggling eyes:

"Where my friends are concerned," said Virgil, "my cousin is hard to please."

"That I can well believe."

"Madam, I will be plain. I do not accept my cousin's estimate. Porus Bureau had his faults, but—"

"So have we all," said the Duchess.

"But Porus Bureau doesn't seem to be clean in the house. But that's not the point, which is— that your cousin is the mistress of Brief. When she pronounced him repugnant, why did he stay?"

Virgil swallowed.

"She could have requested my uncle to ask him to leave."

"I did," said Caroline quietly. "I asked you both, the morning after he came. I told you what had occurred— that during the night he had tried to get into my room."

A frightful silence succeeded these moving words, and Herrick told me later that I went white to the lips.

Old Harry looked at the Count. "Is that within your memory?"

The Count of Brief swallowed.

"We— I thought her mistaken, madam. I said so at once. I explained that one must be quite sure before taking the serious step of asking a guest to leave."

"What made you think she was mistaken?"

"I— I formed that Impression, madam."

"So you've said. I want to know
why
."

The Count of Brief writhed in his chair.

"Her— her tale was Incredible, madam. I decided that she had been dreaming. I— I think so still."

Caroline lifted her voice.

"When I tried to shut it, the man put his foot in my door. But he couldn't keep it there, because his slipper was soft, and when he withdrew it he left his slipper behind. I showed it to you the next morning, to prove my case. If you wanted further proof, he was lame for three days."

There was another silence— of great intensity.