The Tsar's Window/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
A COURT BALL, AND THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
WHATEVER I may think of George, I certainly cannot say that he is unforgiving. He treats me just as he has always done, in spite of the disagreeable scenes at which he has been present, and the rude speeches I have made to him. This goes to prove the truth of what I said about him, namely, that he cares too little about people and things in general to be unforgiving. He looks upon us all (except, perhaps, Judith) as toys with which to amuse his idle hours, and he would not hurt us any more than he would hurt his horse or his dog; in fact, his feeling for us is much the same as that which he has for his brown setter. I cannot think him capable of a deep love for any one. It is true that his eyes—which are generally the coldest I have ever seen—warm up wonderfully sometimes, and his smile is all the sweeter for being so rare; and it may be that I am prejudiced against him, as Mr. Thurber suggested. The idea of Judith's caring for him makes me very unhappy.
Sacha has nearly fallen out of my good graces, he is so foolish. Instead of going to work like a man, and honestly trying to win Judith, he stands back with the air of a martyr, and glowers at all rivals in the field. George is undoubtedly the most dangerous of these. I sneered when Sacha pronounced him fascinating, but I see now what he meant. George is fascinating. Notwithstanding my conviction of his insincerity, I find that in his presence I forget it, and am conscious of the attraction which seems to draw all women towards him. There is in him a peculiar quality of tenderness, which makes me feel that if I were ill, or suffering in any way, I could go to him for sympathy. This may be his true character, which occasionally pierces through the outside polish. I hope, for Judith's sake, that it is so. I never had so many contradictory opinions about a man before.
Judith came to my room last night, when I was making preparations to arrange my hair for the palace ball. This is an important operation with me; it consists in the transportation of an immense lamp from the parlor to my room, and the construction of a pile of books on my dressing-table, on which the lamp is posed at the proper height to illumine my head. After all my efforts, I generally trust very much to luck for my back hair.
Judith made her appearance in a hideous pink wrapper, with her blond hair all twisted up into one tight knot, as if she had just stepped out of her bath.
"Dorris," she cried abruptly, putting down her candle, and closing unceremoniously the little pane in my window which I had opened to air the room, "Dorris, there are two hours before we need to start. I want you to tell me something."
There was a strange excitement in her tone, and her eyes were unusually large and bright. I looked at her in silence. My cousin laughed softly.
"Don't look so alarmed," taking my lamp from me, and setting it down ruthlessly on a bunch of artificial sunflowers which I had spent one hour in arranging.
"There! You have ruined them!" I exclaimed, indignantly rescuing my flowers. "And I have no others to wear."
She took them gently away from me.
"I am so sorry, dear. But see,—I will make them all right. Don't be cross with me!"
"You are so impulsive!" I sighed. "If you had only stopped to look, you would have seen the flowers."
"Of course I should; but I did not look. They are as good as new now; so don't fix your black eyes on me any longer with that reproachful look."
She put a hand on each of my shoulders, and looked down on me fondly from her superior height.
"Listen. Suppose, if you can—suppose you were in love!"
"Well?" I said, after a brief pause, during which she never removed her eyes from mine. "I am willing to suppose it. What then?"
"What then?" she repeated in rather a puzzled tone, turning away and seating herself on an ottoman. "Well, what then? Sure enough," looking at me again, and laughing.
"Is that what you came to ask me?" I inquired calmly, arranging my lamp to suit me.
"Don't be sarcastic, Dorris. It does not become you."
A short silence, during which I sat down in front of my mirror and began to braid my hair.
"Some one is in love with me, Dorris," she said quietly, leaning her round cheek on her palm. "Did you know it?"
A broad smile made its appearance on my face as I gazed at its reflection. Before I could reply Judith went on:—
"I do not mean George, so you need not look as if you were saying, 'I told you so!' But it is some one who is very rich, quite handsome, highly connected, everything that is desirable, and exactly what you would like for a cousin."
Her eyes were studying the pattern in the rug at her feet; her mouth looked mischievous.
"Well?" I interrogated, without enthusiasm.
"There is a sameness in your expressions to-night, Dorris," she said, looking at me slyly. "I suppose you mean to ask what I am going to do about it?"
"Yes, if you wish to tell me."
"I have already refused him."
"You are a sensible woman," I cried emphatically, turning towards her. "Don't let anything tempt you to marry a man whom you do not care for."
Judith rose slowly from her seat, took her candle, and stood before me, pondering. Little rings of hair curled lovingly about her soft, round throat; her lashes, long and black, rested on her cheeks.
"Do you know why I refused him?" she asked, almost in a whisper.
"Only because you did not love him," I responded, with a vague fear in my heart.
She came behind me, kissed the top of my head gently, and whispered,—
"Because I love some one else."
My heart gave one wild leap, and then sank. It was true then,—my worst fears were realized. Judith stood there, waiting for me to speak. I hesitated one instant, then took possession of the white hand which she had laid timidly on my shoulder, and put it to my lips as I replied,—
"That is right, Judith. Be true to him if he is worthy of you."
She burst into a passion of tears, but soon recovered herself; and, with as few words as possible, I sent her away to dress. Then I sat and looked at my small image in the glass.
"Dorris Romilly," I soliloquized, "don't make yourself disagreeable. Help the dear child to be as happy as possible; be unselfish. You dislike George without any reason: try to like him. Because your romance had but a short existence, and ended in sorrow which nearly broke your heart, do not begrudge others their happiness. Conquer yourself, Dorris, conquer yourself!"
Still the image looked back at me with sad eyes.
The clock on my mantel struck eight. I began to dress hurriedly, continuing to reason with myself as I did so; and I moved as though in a dream, out of which I was suddenly awakened by Nicolas's voice, who told me the whole party was waiting for me.
The palace was blazing with light as we drove up to it. There were three thousand guests; and I felt like a small atom in that brilliant throng. While I was looking about me, rather bewildered by it all, my eyes fell on Sacha, who was in a splendid uniform. He looked quite handsome. His face brightened, and he came towards me, nearly upsetting my friend the ambassador, who was also making his way in my direction. The latter frowned, and turned away. Sacha gained my side, breathless but triumphant.
"Will you walk a little?"
"Willingly; but" (turning to Alice) "where will you be when I want to find you?"
"Somewhere near here," she answered; and I started off on a tour of inspection.
We finally reached a part of the great ball-room which was comparatively clear. There were two or three chairs standing against the wall. Having been for some time on my feet, I was glad to drop into one of these. Sacha started back, as if he were shocked,—"O mademoiselle!"
"What is it?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, indeed, I would not do that!"
"Do what? Sit down?" I answered. "Why not?"
"It is not the custom, really."
I arose, with a sigh.
"What nonsense all these rules are! No one would have noticed me."
I still felt half-dazed, after my interview with Judith. I wished to think about it; but that was an impossibility, with all this bustle and noise around me. I resolved to shake off the spell which Judith's words had cast over me, and enjoy myself as much as I could. Sacha began to talk earnestly to me, on the same old subject.
"I am engaged to her for the third quadrille," I heard him saying, "and I shall take that opportunity."
Poor fellow! He never could get his courage up to propose to Judith; but he was always threatening it. I began to talk with him about George. Perhaps he would tell me that secret now, I thought; but it would be too late to save my darling girl, for she loved him. Somehow, my heart was very heavy.
"You once began," I said, "to tell me something about Count Piloff; but you did not finish it."
He looked at me vacantly; then a gleam of recollection lighted up his dark eyes.
"Yes, I remember," he answered. "I don't know whether I had better tell you or not."
"You are the best judge of that," I made answer indifferently. "Of course, if you tell me, it will go no further."
After a moment of apparent hesitation, Sacha said, in a low and confidential tone:—
"Mademoiselle, it is something startling I am about to confide to you; but you must consider that George has knocked about the world a great deal, and perhaps has not that fine sense of honor which he would have had under different circumstances. I should not mention the matter, were it not for your cousin's interest to know the truth about him."
"Never mind apologizing," I cried impatiently.
"George has made a heavy bet at the club that he will marry an heiress within six months. He made that bet the day after he met your cousin, and directly after some men had been asking him about her; so it was understood by all that she was the heiress indicated."
The music and the noise around me seemed to be compressed into one loud "Bang!" which knocked my heart and my brain together. I turned on my companion, with an angry cry: "Is this true?" I exclaimed.
"True!" he repeated. "How could I tell it to you otherwise?"
The sharp pain in my heart dulled my other senses. I knew that Sacha's voice was going on and on, but had not an idea of what he was saying. I knew, too, that some acquaintances came and spoke to me; that Sacha left me, that the ambassador escorted me into the next room and gave me an ice, and that I ate it mechanically; but all the time I was saying mentally, "Infamous! Oh, poor Judith!"
Then a relief, sudden as the blow had been, came over me. Perhaps it was all a lie. George was not capable of such a thing. In any case, why should I care? I had never liked him. But the dull pain settled down at my heart again, and stayed there. My companion asked me if I felt ill. No, I said; but I was tired. So I was, very tired.
The ambassador took me in to supper. There were three supper-rooms. In the largest the imperial table was spread; also two others, at one of which we took our places. And there were two bands, which played alternately during supper. The music was sad, and I could hardly swallow a mouthful. We ate off massive gold and silver; the wine stood in coolers of beautiful silver filagree; the glass was exquisite Bohemian. The Emperor did not sup, but walked about, and talked with many of his guests. Three thousand people, seated, without crowding, at a hot supper served on Sèvres and silver dishes, was a truly imperial entertainment. But I was not in a fit state of mind to appreciate this magnificence.
I had seen none of my party since the first of the evening, and after supper I made a thorough search of the ball-room, but without success. At last the ambassador proposed to leave me in a certain spot and go by himself to look for Alice. He had not been gone long when a servant offered me some hot punch. As I was drinking it, George's voice close beside me said,—
"At last, Miss Romilly, I have found you! I have been looking everywhere for you."
Something, I know not what, perhaps a tone of heartiness or sincerity in his voice, sent a pang of regret and incredulity through me. I felt the tears rush in a blinding mist to my eyes as I lifted them to his without a word. I conquered myself the moment I encountered his calm gaze, and colored guiltily, fearing I had betrayed my knowledge of his secret. He did not speak a word as he took the empty glass from my hand and put it on a table near by. Then he sat down quietly beside me, saying, "We are to wait here for Alice. She is saying good-night to some half dozen friends."
"And Judith?" I inquired.
"Is with her. Where have you kept yourself all the evening? None of us have seen you since you deserted us to go off with Novissilsky."
"I don't know where I have been, nor who I have seen, nor what I have done," I answered wearily. "It has all been a tremendous noise and confusion. Jewels, footmen in livery; and every one whom I ever knew talking to me at once."
"Tiresome, is it not? I fancy you are glad to have a chance to sit down."
"Yes. Mr. Novissilsky would not allow me to sit when I was with him."
He laughed, and it seemed to me there was a touch of contempt in his amusement.
"Sacha is punctilious," he remarked quietly.
"Is he truthful?" I cried abruptly, turning an anxious face on my companion.
He did not immediately return my look, but he answered carelessly,—
"I have no reason to think otherwise. Have you?"
"Perhaps not," I said musingly. "Perhaps not," more decidedly. "I would like to think him untruthful though."
"Pray do then," laughed George. "It is generally safe to doubt people; and if he has told you anything unpleasant, don't believe him. At least," he said, suddenly becoming grave, leaning forward, and looking me in the face, "do not let his words, whatever they were, make you so sad. He has ruined your evening for you, I see. Believe me, nothing that he can tell you is worth a moment's unhappiness, unless it is something which concerns you personally, which is not likely. In any case," gazing at me with a gleam of warmer interest than usual in his eyes, "do not let anything he says make you look so wretched as you did when I came up to you just now. I—" Before he could finish his sentence, or I could reply, Alice came in, with the others of our party, and we wended our way towards the door.
George's few words put new courage into me, for some reason, and I felt quite cheerful when we reached home, so that I proposed to Judith to awaken Tom and Grace, and give them an account of our adventures. We had some difficulty in arousing them, but at last succeeded in getting Grace up. She enveloped herself in a wrapper, and came out into her dressing-room to listen to our narrative.
"Well, Grace," I said, tilting myself on the arm of a chair, "you never saw anything so magnificent in your life. We walked through a mile or two of corridors and halls, brilliantly lighted with candles—"
"Tallow-dips or spermaceti?" called Tom from behind the screen, in a loud voice.
"High-arched ceilings over our heads," I continued, regardless of this interruption. "Finally we came to the Salle des Négres,—so called because at the doors which lead from there to the apartments of the Emperor, two Arabians, dressed in white, are stationed as guards. Next came an octagonal room, lined with tables holding tea, cakes, and ices. So on, through more magnificent halls—"
"Did you count all this in your two or three miles?" asked Tom meekly; but I vouchsafed no reply.
"The floors were polished until they were like ice. At last we came to a perfect dream of splendor. It was a long corridor, ornamented with plants, and containing a table which ran the entire length of it, holding tea, cakes, and other refreshment. The green plants, the white table-cloth, the glittering glass and silver, the lights overhead, all grew smaller, and smaller, and smaller, and smaller, until they dwindled into nothing, simply because the eye could reach no farther."
"Oh, come now!" as I stopped for comment.
"True, Tom," spoke up Judith.
"This corridor," I continued, "was separated from the ball-room by a row of Corinthian columns, which were wound with evergreens interspersed with lighted candles. The room was immensely high, a balcony with carved balustrade surrounded it, and the walls were lined with immense palms and magnolias. Servants in red, yellow, and white livery stood behind the tables to serve us. Maids of honor and Russian ladies were arranged in a line extending from the door where the imperial family was to enter; opposite them were the ladies of the diplomatic corps. Opposite the door, upon which all eyes were fixed, were Russian gentlemen, all in court or military uniform. The door opened, the murmur of voices ceased, a master of ceremonies entered, and soon after the Emperor and his family. He bowed, and the answering courtesies made the room look like a field of wheat in a wind."
"Old, but appropriate. Go on."
"The Emperor talked a little with some members of the diplomatic body, and then opened the ball with a polonaise. I need not describe that to you."
"Judith," said Grace suddenly, "I hope you did not tear your dress."
"Mine is nearly demolished," I said sadly, "but Judith's is as good as new. She must have kept very quiet somewhere to get it torn so little. Come, Judith! They don't appreciate our description. Let us go to bed and leave them."
When we reached the door, Tom called out in a wide-awake tone, "Hold on!" But we refused to listen. I was sound asleep a few minutes after my head touched the pillow.
I have just had a long talk with Judith. After what she has told me, I am sure nothing could astonish me; the heavens might fall, and I should think that all was as it should be.
We went to walk together, taking Mathilde to guard us. As usual on the Nevsky, we met Circassians, Georgians, Turks, Persians, and Cossacks,—every nationality under the sun. Some of the church-bells were ringing, and at the sound the istvostchiks took off their hats and crossed themselves devoutly. We had not gone many yards before Judith turned to me with a laugh, saying,—
"Did you think I was a little insane last night, my dear?"
"Not exactly," I answered. "I have seen the matter coming to this point for some time."
"Have you?" (opening her eyes in surprise). "I did not suppose you had the remotest idea of it."
"Why, Judith, you know I thought long ago that he cared for you!"
She looked puzzled, and then amused.
"O Dorris," she said, "I really believe there has been a misunderstanding. You surely did not think—did you think I meant George?" turning a laughing face eagerly upon me.
"Of course," I responded, with a catch in my breath. "Who else could it be?"
"It is not George," Judith said, walking on quietly. "It is some one whom you have never seen—"
"Ah!" I interrupted, stopping in the middle of the street at the risk of being run over, and staring at my cousin. "It is—"
She took me by the arm and pulled me across the street. "How reckless you are!"
"But," I persisted, "it must be the young man in Vienna,—the one whom Mr. Tremaine wrote me about,—Roger Fisk. Is it he, Judith?" with an appealing look.
"What did Mr. Tremaine write you about him?" she asked eagerly.
"But is it he?"
"What did my guardian say about him?" she repeated with emphasis.
"I will not go another step," I exclaimed, stopping in front of the Kazan Church, "until you tell me whether it was Roger Fisk that you were talking about."
She laughed in spite of herself. "Yes, it was."
"Who would have dreamed it?" I murmured, continuing my way. "Who would have thought you were in love?"
"Come, Dorris, you are very provoking!" said my cousin, looking as if she thought of pouting. "Why don't you tell me about Mr. Tremaine's letter?"
"He only said that Mr. Fisk had written to him, but that he would consent to no engagement until you were of age."
"I shall be twenty-one in August," she cried triumphantly. "What else did he say?"
"Only that he wondered how you had succeeded in making your mutual confessions when you were in a strict boarding-school."
She laughed immoderately.
"Dorris, I have known Roger for four years."
I gazed at her blankly.
"But you have only been in Europe four years!"
"Very true. I met Roger the week after I arrived in Paris, at the house of a lady who was extremely kind to me. I believe you know her. It was Mrs. Emmons. I used to dine with her often, and he was generally there, and we had plenty of other mutual friends in the American colony. Roger was studying in the hospitals. He went to Vienna ten months after I entered the school there, and in that city we could not have met often, except that I used to go to riding-school with one of the teachers, who was absorbed in the study of Italian. She had a chance to go to Italy with a family in the vacation, and as they supposed her to be proficient in the language, it behooved her to study diligently. She used to take her books with her, and she never noticed me from the time we got there till we left. Roger always met me, and in that way we saw each other regularly twice a week. It was great fun!" Judith looked at me with a broad smile.
"I should think so," I responded. "What an excellent plan it is to send girls abroad to school!"
"I knew Mr. Tremaine would never consent," she went on, after a while. "I told Roger it was of no use to write; but he said there should be no deceit about the affair, if he could prevent it, and—"
"Yes," I interrupted, "it seems to have been a very open and straightforward performance,—especially the meetings at the riding-school."
"Now, Dorris," she said coaxingly, "don't be unkind about it!"
"My dear child," I replied briskly, "I am more pleased with you than I can say. I did not know that you were capable of such constancy, and I cannot praise you too highly."
"That's a dear! If we were not in the street, I would kiss you. So you do not think it is such a foolish affair, after all?"
"I did not say that. Worldly people would tell you that you were wild. But I don't see anything so strange in your looking forward to an engagement at some future date."
She looked a little crestfallen.
"I am engaged to him now," she murmured.
"Well, I don't think you can expect me to approve of that!"
"I shall be twenty-one in the summer; Roger is coming home in the fall, and will begin to practise at once. Surely, that is not such a dismal prospect."
"Mr. Tremaine would call it so."
"I don't care at all what he calls it," she responded pettishly. "I love Roger, and no one else; and I never will marry any one but him!"
"Bravo!" I cried. "I admire your resolution." Then, as the thought of sundry flirtations which had been going on lately in Petersburg travelled through my mind, I added, in a cooler tone, "If you only live up to your idea, and don't change your mind."
"Roger is not afraid to trust me. He was afraid when I left Paris: he did not expect me to be true to him; and the first time he met me, after that ten months' separation, he was very doubtful about the reception I should give him. But when he found that such a long absence had made no difference, he decided that he could trust me forever. You see he thinks I am a coquette by nature, and mean no harm," she added earnestly.
"Strange that he should" (ironically). "But do you mean to tell me that you were engaged to him before you left Paris?" I demanded in blank dismay.
"Yes," answered my cousin meekly.
"Judith, come home!" (turning and beginning to retrace my steps). "I did not suppose you had such depths of deceit in you."
"Don't be vexed!" she panted, struggling to keep up with my hasty steps.
"I am not. I am only utterly amazed."
When we turned in at our own door, and began the ascent to our apartment, a thought of George flashed across me. I sat down on the stairs.
"What are you doing?" exclaimed my companion, her eyes dancing with amusement.
"Unhappy girl!" I cried, in a voice which I tried to make severe. "How about George, and all the others?"
"The others can take care of themselves. As for George, he knows the whole story. Take care, Dorris! You will lose your eyes! Yes, I told George about it long ago; for when he was in Vienna, he and Roger were great friends, and you cannot imagine how I have enjoyed talking with him about Roger. He gives me ever so much encouragement. But come! Are you going to sit there all day?"
I rose slowly, and continued the ascent.
"Then George is not in love with you, after all?"
"In love with me?" (emphatically). "Far from it! He never has been, and never will be."
"All his attention to you, which I took for pure devotion, was sympathy? The reason you and he were so fond of talking together was because you talked of Roger?"
"Yes; and when I was blue, he used to comfort me, and tell me that things would come out right in the end. He advised me many times to confide in you; but I never could get courage enough."
"Well," said I, as we entered the library-door together, "if anything remains of me after the successive shocks you have given me, it will be almost a miracle. How fortunate that the servants understand no English! Judith, you are a good girl" (giving her rather an awkward embrace, for I am not of a caressing disposition). "I cannot talk anymore about it now; for I must write it down in my journal."