CHAPTER XI
THE MAN WHO WAITED
She ran from him, along the moonlit path. One step he took as if to follow and keep her, but checked himself and let her go. Only his eyes went with her, and in them there was more of pain than anger, though never before in all his life, perhaps, had he been thwarted in any strong desire. Pa.s.sion urged him forward, but pride held him back; for Leopold was a proud man, and to have his love thrown in his face, was to receive an icy douche with the blood at fever heat.
For this girl"s sake he had in a few days changed the habits of a lifetime. Pride, reserve, self-control, the wish not only to appear, but to be a man, above the frailties of common men, the ambition to be placed, and worthily placed, on a pedestal by his subjects; all these he had thrown away for Helen Mowbray.
He was too just a man not to admit that, if one of his Royal cousins of younger branches, had contemplated such folly as this, he would have done his best to nip that folly while it was in bud. "He jests at scars who never felt a wound"; and until Leopold had learned by his own unlooked-for experience what love can mean, what men will do for love while the sweet madness is on them, he would have been utterly unable to understand the state of mind.
A cousin inclined to act as he was now bent on acting, would but a month ago have found all the Emperor"s influence, even force perhaps, brought to bear in restraining him. Leopold saw the change in himself, was startled and shamed by it; nevertheless he would have persevered, trampling down every obstacle that rose in his way, if only the girl had seen things with his eyes.
She had accused him of insulting her, not stopping to consider that, even to make her morganatically his wife, he must give great cause for complaint not only to his ministers but to his people. For he was expected to marry a girl of Royal blood, that the country might have an heir. If Helen Mowbray had accepted the position he offered her, he could never have broken her heart by making another marriage.
Not only would it be difficult in these days to find a Princess willing to tolerate such a rival, but it would have been impossible for him to desecrate the bond between himself and the one adored woman.
This being the case, with Helen Mowbray as his morganatic wife, there could be no direct heir to the throne. At his death, the son of his uncle, the Archduke Joseph, would succeed; and during his life the popularity which was dear to him would be hopelessly forfeited.
Rhaetia would never forgive him for selfishly preferring his own private happiness to the good of the nation.
He could fancy how old Iron Heart von Breitstein would present this point of view to him, with fierce eloquence, temples throbbing like the ticking of a watch, eyes netted with bloodshot veins. But on the other hand he could picture himself standing calmly to face the storm, steadfast in his own indomitable will, happy with love to uphold him.
But now, the will which had borne him through life in a triumphal march, had been powerless against that of this young girl. She would have none of him. A woman whose face was her fortune, whose place in life was hardly as high as the first step of a throne, had refused--an Emperor.
Hardly could Leopold believe the thing that had happened to him. He had spoken of doubting that he had won her love; and he had doubted.
But he had allowed himself to hope, because he had confidence in his Star, and because, perhaps, it had scarcely been known in the annals of history that an Emperor"s suit should be repulsed.
Besides, he had loved the girl so pa.s.sionately, that it seemed she could not remain cold. And he hoped still that, when she had pa.s.sed a long night in reflection, in thinking over the situation, perhaps taking counsel with that comparatively commonplace yet practical little lady, her mother, she might be ready to change her mind.
For the first few moments after the stinging rebuff he had endured, Leopold felt that, if she did, it would be her turn to suffer, for he could never humble himself to implore for the second time. But, as he stood in the soft stillness of the night, gazing towards the lights of the house, thoughts of Virginia--her youth, her sweetness, her beauty dimmed with grief,--overwhelmed him. Could he have reached her, he would have fallen on his knees, and kissed her gown.
By and by a vast tenderness breathed its calm over the thwarted pa.s.sion in his breast, and plans to win her back came whispering in his ear. He would write a letter and send it to her room. But no; perhaps it would be wise to give her a longer interval for reflection and--it might be--regret. To-morrow he would see her and show all the depths of that great love which she had thought to throw away. She could not go on withstanding him forever; and now that he had burned his boats behind him, he would never think of turning back. He would persevere till she should yield.
Meanwhile Virginia had hurried blindly toward the house, and it was instinct rather than intention that led her to the open window of the music room, by which she had come out.
Tears burned her eyelids, but they did not fall until she stood once more in the room where she and Leopold had been happy together. There she had sat at the piano, and he had bent over her, love in his eyes--honest love, she had thought, her heart full of thanksgiving.
How little she had guessed then the humiliation in store for her, and the end of all her hopes! How could she bear her pain, and how could she go on living out her life?
She paused in the window niche, looking into the room through a mist of tears, and a sob choked her. "Cruel--cruel," she whispered. "What agony--what an insult!"
Then, dashing away her tears, she pushed back the dark curtain, and would have pa.s.sed on into the room, had not the quick gesture brought her arm into contact with the b.u.t.tons and gold braid on a man"s breast.
Instantly she realized that some one was hiding there--some one dressed in a military coat; and her first impulse was for flight--anything to escape, unrecognized. But on second thoughts she changed her mind.
Whoever it was had in all probability hidden himself for the purpose of spying, and was already aware that Miss Mowbray had rushed into the house weeping, after a tete-a-tete with the Emperor in the garden.
Perhaps he had even caught a word or two of her sobbing e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.
No, she must not run away, and leave the outcome of this affair to chance. She must see with whom she had to deal, that she might know what was best to do.
She had taken a step into the room, but quick as light she turned, pulled away the screen of curtain and faced Captain von Breitstein.
It was a trying moment for him, and the girl"s look stripped him of all his light audacity. She had come to the window by a different path from the one he had watched, therefore she had taken him unawares, before he had time to escape, as he had planned. He was caught fairly, and must save himself as best he could without preparation.
If her reproach forestalled his excuse, he was lost. He must step into the breach at whatever risk. No time to weigh words; he must let loose the first that sprang to his lips.
"I see what you think of me," he said. "I see you think I was watching you. I swear I wasn"t, though I knew you were in the garden with--the Emperor. Wait--you must listen. You must hear my justification. I was sent to this room to fetch you. For your sake, how could I go back and say you had disappeared--together? I looked out into the garden and saw you--with him. I saw from your manner that--he had made you suffer. I was half mad with rage, guessing--guessing something which one word you let drop as you came in, told me had happened. He is my sovereign, but--he has insulted you. Let me be your knight, as in days of old. Let me defend you, for I love you. I waited here to tell you this, as you came, so that, if you would, we might announce an engagement--"
If Virginia"s eyes had been daggers, he would have fallen at her feet, pierced to the heart. For one long second she looked at him without speaking, her face eloquent. Then she went by him with the proud bearing of a queen.
Egon was stricken dumb. Dully he watched her move across the room to a door which led into a corridor. He heard the whisper of her satin dress, and saw the changing lights and shadows on its creamy folds, under the crystal chandeliers; he saw the white reflection, like a spirit, mirrored deep under the polished surface of the floor.
Never had she been more beautiful; but she was beautiful in his eyes no longer. He had hurt her pride; but she had stabbed his vanity; and to wound Egon von Breitstein"s vanity was to strike at his life. He hated the girl, hated her so sharply that his nerves ached with the intensity of his hatred; and the only relief he could have would be through reprisal.
He had not been able to deceive her. She knew that he had been spying, and it was fortunate for his future, he realized already, that she had broken with the Emperor. He must do all he could, and do it quickly, to prevent a reconciliation, lest she should work him injury.
As for his hastily stammered proposal, it was a good thing that the girl had not taken him at his word, for the Chancellor had not given him permission to speak, and if she had accepted him, he might have had to wriggle out of his engagement. Still, he could not forgive her scorn of him.
"Lorenz shall help me to pay her for this!" he said furiously to himself, too angry to mourn over lost hopes, lost opportunities. "He will know how to punish her. And between us she shall suffer."
CHAPTER XII
"THE EMPEROR WILL UNDERSTAND"
It was for refuge that the Princess fled to her own room.
A boudoir shared by the Grand d.u.c.h.ess adjoined it, and entering there, to her dismay the girl saw her mother lying on a sofa, attended by Ernestine, the French maid.
Virginia"s heart sank. She had supposed the Grand d.u.c.h.ess to be in the white drawing-room with the Baroness, and the other guests of the house. Now there was no hope that she might be left alone and unquestioned. And the girl had longed to be alone.
"At last!" exclaimed a faint voice from the sofa. "I thought you would never come."
The Princess stared, half-dazed, unable yet to tear her mind from her private griefs. "Are you ill, Mother?" she stammered. "Had you sent for me?"
"I came very near fainting in the drawing-room," the Grand d.u.c.h.ess answered. "Ernestine, you may leave us now."
The French woman went out noiselessly.
Still Virginia did not speak. Could it be that there had been another spy, beside Egon von Breitstein, and that her mother already knew how the castle of cards had fallen? Was it the news of defeat which had prostrated her?
"Have you--did any one tell you?" the girl faltered.
"I"ve had a telegram--a horrible telegram. Oh, Virginia, I am not young, as you are. I am too old to endure all this. I think you should not have subjected me to it."
The Grand d.u.c.h.ess"s voice was plaintive, and pried among the girl"s sick nerves, like hot wire.