Since the morning after his arrival Mizzi had waited on him with an air of courteous disapproval. She had been as polite as ever, as demure and piquant as could be wished, but she had been less communicative, less _sympathique_ with the stranger. Even in the presence of her mistress there was a suggestion of frigidity that was galling to a sensitive man.
Lionel grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been a little to blame, but, illogically enough, he resented the atmosphere of respectful condemnation. More than once he had tried to dissipate the unhappy misunderstanding, to restore things to a more friendly--but not too friendly--footing. In this he had not been successful. To his cheerful and carefully composed commonplaces Mizzi made the briefest of answers, and on one occasion there had been a distinct toss of the head and an unmistakable sniff. "Women are so unreasonable," he said to himself complainingly, after a sustained effort that fell flat; then with a pang of compunction, "Some women, I mean. I do wish Mizzi would be sensible.... It is very trying."
Matters came to a head after he had been Miss Blair"s guest for nearly a week. It was a Sat.u.r.day, and his hostess went to the theater directly after lunch to get ready for the matinee. Lionel, provided with one of her cards, was to follow her and see the play, for as yet he had not watched her on the stage. The experience proved delightful, for the play was good and her acting excellent. After it was over he went back to the flat alone, for she meant to rest in her dressing-room until the evening performance.
Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she said, "Immediately, m"sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of compa.s.sion. Her att.i.tude was almost that of a perfect mother to a well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin"s _Marche Funebre_.
Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table, placed a cake-stand within easy reach, paused to make sure she had forgotten nothing, and then asked, "Is there anything more, m"sieur?"
Lionel, who had come to a resolution while waiting, roused himself.
"Yes," he said decisively, "there is. Will you be kind enough Mizzi, to tell me why you surround me with the wet-blanket of your wrath? It is very depressing to a sunny nature."
Mizzi looked at him with a frank pity in her eyes. "It is because I am sorry," she replied.
"That is no explanation," said Lionel briskly, glad to perceive a thaw, however slight. "Why are you sorry?"
"Because you are a fool," observed Mizzi with a gentle pensiveness.
Lionel started; he had not expected this. To be called a fool by a friend of one"s own age and s.e.x is an every-day matter that causes no uneasiness. To be called a fool by a withered graybeard need not leave a sting, for there is the comfortable reflection that the graybeard may be repeating a mere formula, and that he, too, enjoyed being a fool in his day. To be called a fool by a youthful enemy is only to be expected, and the epithet betrays a palpable lack of judgment in the user, an epithet that returns like a boomerang upon himself. But to be called a fool by a pretty woman is a distinct ordeal. Lionel was shaken.
He contrived to compa.s.s a laugh. It was not an infectious cachinnation, but still it was a laugh. "Will you tell me why I am a fool?" he asked in a moment.
"Certainly," said Mizzi, still in the same gentle tone. "It is because you are the slave of my mistress."
"Excuse me," said Lionel politely, "but I have no wish to discuss her.
You may go."
At this the maid lost some of her admirable self-control. "Bah!" she cried, "you are the same as the rest! Show a man a pretty face and a pair of dazzling eyes, and he is blinded! You think her perfect----"
"I know she is," he interrupted, "though why I should trouble to say so to a servant----"
The thrust was cruel, but he felt she had deserved it.
"A servant!" she repeated, sparkling with anger. "A servant! Yes, it is true--but an honest true woman that knows not how to tell lies like her mistress----"
"That is enough," said Lionel, taking her with a gentle firmness by the arm. "My tea, I fear, must be getting cold."
As soon as he touched her the virago subsided. She made not the least resistance as he led her to the door. But as he was opening it she looked up with appealing eyes. "Ah, monsieur!" she whispered piteously; but he was in no mood to be melted. He shut the door upon her, and did not see the rainbow of smiles that played over her face the moment she was in safety.
"She is jealous," mused Lionel, pouring out a cup of tea; "I did not think she would have been so silly."
He wagged his head sadly over the frailty of human nature, and then an unpleasant thought struck him--the accusation of her mistress. "Lies"
had been the charge--an ugly word--and on the face of things somewhat plausible. Again he reviewed the arguments for the defense--the lack of all apparent motive for deceit, his uselessness from a blackmailer"s standpoint, and the rest,--and the strength of them gave him fresh courage. The strongest argument of all, the remembrance of Beatrice herself, almost clenched the matter. _Almost_, for he was cautious, and had some knowledge of the world. Still, he was young and hopeful, and the obvious jealousy of Mizzi was an additional reason for discounting her a.s.sertions. "Lies or not," he concluded, "it is too amusing to let slip. Besides, she is such a dear...."
The object of his devoted suspicion returned soon after eleven that night, a little tired, but full of kindliness and mirth. "Oh!" she cried, as she entered the room, "I hope you haven"t waited supper for me. If so, you must be ravenous----"
"Of course I waited," said Lionel. "Shall I ring?"
"But why hasn"t Mizzi set supper?" asked Beatrice, pausing in the act of taking off her hat.
"I don"t know," said Lionel carelessly. "It is true we had a slight difference, but surely----"
She caught up his words. "A difference! with my maid!"
Lionel cursed his stupidity in silence. The unlucky words had slipped from his mouth unheeding. He stood dumb.
"What was the difference about?" asked Beatrice frigidly. "Did you try to kiss her?"
At this stroke of feminine intuition Lionel felt himself to be in deep waters. He was no lover of lies, and to this peerless creature a lie would be doubly treacherous. On the other hand, something was due to Mizzi: not only had he tried to kiss her--the feat had been successfully accomplished.
"Do you think," he asked reproachfully, "that the moment your back was turned I could transfer my worship to another?"
"I think it quite possible," said the lady with a twinkle he did not see.
"Then, madam," returned Lionel in his best wounded manner, "let me tell you what happened. I rang for tea. Your maid served it with a certain coldness of manner. I asked the reason, and she accused me of folly in being devoted to you. She even hinted that your words were not wholly to be relied on. I at once led her from the room."
"Without a kiss?"
"I held her at arm"s length," said Lionel proudly.
Beatrice said "H"m" in a meditative manner, and then, more briskly, "Please ring the bell."
Lionel obeyed, and waited in some distress. Suppose Mizzi were to excuse herself by relating the incident in which he had been a partner! Would he be cast into darkness on the instant? What a Nemesis for how trivial a misdemeanor! He heard the bell ring again, as the impatient Beatrice pressed the electric b.u.t.ton, and sweat broke out upon his forehead. A crisis was imminent. Still a third time the relentless tinkle sounded, and he was without plan, excuse, or counterplot. He woke from his anguish to hear the lady speak.
"She must have gone out, I suppose ... but we must make sure ... perhaps ... will you come?"
He followed her, grateful for the respite, and at a loss for the meaning. They went into the hall, and thence to the kitchen. No one was there. In silence they knocked on the bedroom door, but received no answer. Beatrice opened the door and peered within. She switched on the electric light and they advanced. In the center of the floor stood a portmanteau, strapped and labeled. Lionel lifted the label and read the inscription aloud. It was to a warehouse in Camden Town.
"She has gone!" said the lady in a whisper of tragedy. "_She has gone!_"
"And a good riddance, too!" returned Lionel with a vast cheerfulness.
"But she might at least have laid supper first."
"You do not understand," said Beatrice tensely. "This is no ordinary desertion. It means, I fear, that she has joined my enemies."
Lionel"s good breeding was not proof against the suddenness of this. He sat down abruptly on a convenient chair and laughed.
"No, no!" he cried. "That will not do, madam. That is--forgive me--too crude, unworthy of your talents. Reflect! Your servant runs off in a petulant fit, and lo! you exclaim that she has been suborned by the Ottoman Empire! That is sheer melodrama."
Beatrice gave a smile that was grave and reproachful.
"You forget," she said gently, "that I am an actress."
The sweetness of the reproof, the ironical self-criticism, convinced him of her sincerity more than any rhetoric could have done. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly, taking her hand; "tell me more."
"She has deserted me," said Beatrice quietly. "With her I made my one great mistake--natural, but irreparable. I thought her true, and one day, when I was in need of a woman"s sympathy and help, I told her all ... all, even to the hiding-place of the treaty. It is too late for regrets or fears. Now we must act."